


Sketchy

by serpentynka



Series: Sketchy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 years after TRF, Art, Career Change, Case Fic, Chemistry, Coming of Age, Divergent while compliant, Establishing Relationship, Family Secrets, First Time, Forced changes, Illness and health, John Whump, John's bedtime stories, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Story, M/M, Philosophy, Porn with Feelings, Portraiture, Post-Reichenbach, Requited Love, Slow Burn, The end of the Work, choices which are not, post-Mary, switchlock, travel and languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 83
Words: 184,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentynka/pseuds/serpentynka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What (and who) will be left when nobody cares about your Work?  A slow-burn fic with cases, places, mistaken identities, unfair choices, essential changes, violent feels, blatant lies, fearless portraiture, family secrets, high-risk bespoke gifts, durable friendships, bedtime stories, foreign travel and tongues, sickness (and health), and the significance of things which are slow to unfurl -- but cannot be ignored.  Oh, and...porn.</p><p>Part 1:  Sherlock takes on an obvious case (barely a 4) and meets someone who will force him to re-examine what it means to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of all places

**Author's Note:**

> A podfic of this story, read by aranel_parmadil, is available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5834611?view_full_work=true) (19h 54m)

Cover art by _hamstermoon_

 

***

 

Susanne Niles.  Introductions finished, John offers her his soft armchair.  He takes her in:  mid-thirties, a round, pleasant face, smallish features, a figure a bit softened around the edges, hair dyed dark auburn, artistic-looking silver earrings, black clothes head to toe.  A solemn and discomfited expression is visiting her green eyes; she has just offered her hand to Sherlock, who has nodded at her without taking it.   _Yes, very uncomfortable but she’s a nice person, and still polite_ , John thinks, _so maybe it’s a serious personal problem?_  

Sherlock has settled into his armchair across from her.  A shaft of sunlight is filtering through the window behind Sherlock and illuminates uncountable particles of dust, which hover and eddy around his hair -- which is also wayward and chaotic, indicating (to their guest at least) that he had most likely been pulled out of bed not more than ten minutes before.  While he is fully dressed, Sherlock’s eyes, groggy and reddish, do not seem entirely present.  Nonetheless, he is flicking them over his client; they narrow.  When he sees it, John wants to side with her somehow. 

John, Sherlock notes, seems to feel like playing at arbitration; he is pulling a chair over from the living room table and settling himself between them.  There is a brief pause, after which John opens his mouth.  “Tell us, when you’re ready, what we can do for you.”

She speaks.  “It’s just so awkward.  I’m a bit flustered.” 

“Essential facts," Sherlock says, steepling his fingers and sweeping his eyes over Susanne’s hair, face, and clothing again.

“Yes.  I’m sorry.  I can hardly think,” she says, rapidly.  “I’ve heard you look into problems that don’t necessarily fall into the usual scope of -- police work.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was at a cafe last night and I saw --“ 

“The name.”

“Sorry?  Oh.  _Swan’s Son_.  A coffee shop near my flat.  And I saw something.  Let me show you,” she says, removing her phone from her handbag, “I took photographs.  Just a moment....  The police shouldn’t be brought in to clear it up, but, well, I just can’t see how I could be wrong.  Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense, but I’m just --” 

Sherlock exhales.  “Clearly.  This morning you’ve already dropped your phone in the street, mislaid your keys and forgotten your allergy pill.”

“Never mind him.  Take your time.”  John’s is already turning his body instinctively toward her.  Sherlock finds that quaint, hence irritating.

“You’re right, Mr. Holmes,” replies Susanne.  “I can’t imagine how you know that.”

Sherlock waves a hand; dust disperses wildly in the sunlight, agitated and thrown into further disarray by that edgy movement; he shifts in his seat; all at once he looks awake and present.  He smiles, perhaps to himself, and John takes to studying the lines in his own knuckles, keeping his hands folded tightly in his lap. 

John grimaces.  “We can do without --" he starts to say, as Sherlock takes a breath:

“The finish on the corner of your phone has fresh scuff marks.  There is still dirt in the volume buttons on the side where it fell and it matches the dirt on your jacket where you brushed it off.  Your keyring has a pink plush elephant with a letter 'J' hanging from its trunk and clearly belongs to a child, while your mode of dress is quiet.  A throwback to late 1990s minimalism, office attire, though, I’d say public administration.  Not your keychain.  You’ve most probably just left your daughter at school and you came straight here.  Well, nearly.  You stopped for a sandwich.  The one poking out of your handbag with a broken closure.  Not a particularly good choice, curry and chicken.  Irritants.  You have a contact allergy to your clothing on your wrists and throat, you’re wearing a wool blend sweater.  You are trying not to overtly scratch at the backs of your hands and neck, very likely you usually suppress it with allergy medicine and you’ve just noticed your discomfort because the flat is overheated this morning.  You might open a window, John.  By the way, the rose oil in the perfume you’re wearing tends to autoxidate into geranial, doesn’t your dermatologist warn you about these things?”

John exhales.  “Finished?” he fires at Sherlock, his hands still clasped, his eyebrows raised slightly, eyes flashing with _choke you in a minute_.  Almost precisely the expression Sherlock had been expecting; he shrugs.  John turns back to Susanne Niles and his face softens at the sight of her widened eyes.  “Sorry, it’s something he does.  He notices things, and, well.  Let’s get back to what brought you here today.”

“It’s all right.  I know I’m not presenting myself well, I do realise.”  She is looking at her phone, running through her photographs.  She finds what she wants.  “These.”  She passes the phone to Sherlock.  “I’m sorry, they’re rather vulgar, sorry --“

John leans in and stares at the screen.  _A framed oil painting of a tattoo across a man's -- left buttock._ “Oh.”

“Yes.  They’re all tattoos, all different, in various places, but mostly they’re --”

“A pathetic cry for attention.” Sherlock seems to be enlarging the pictures with his fingers, studying them blankly as he flicks through them.  Susanne reaches for the phone and takes it back.

“Mr. Holmes.  It’s here, just a moment.  This one....  I’m sorry, I know it’s quite --” She hands the phone back.  “The problem is, it’s of my brother, Andrew.  I am certain.”

“Of consenting age, clearly.”  Sherlock is not hiding his irritation now.  John glances down toward the phone and Sherlock holds it up in front of his face.

“Military?“ John asks, focusing on the photo.  Sherlock follows the question in John’s voice with his eyes.

“He served in Iraq,” Susanne replies.  “I saw on your blog, you were in Afghanistan, Doctor Watson?  Above all, thank you.  For your service.”

“Thank you,” John says, looking at her face intently.  Sherlock sees a gleam in John’s eyes.  Sentiment.  And his back has straightened.

Susanne continues.  She addresses John now.  “I know what it means.  You see, my brother was ambushed on a patrol in Basra.  Well.  It’s worse.  By officers trained by our own, they turned on them.  Four men in his convoy died, including his commanding officer, and three were wounded.  Andrew was one of them.  He lost most of the fine motor control in his right hand and he came home in 2008, but he never could adjust and we just didn’t--“

John’s jaw goes tight.  He nods.

“How did he die,” Sherlock interjects, and the flatness of his voice implies he is reading an unpunctuated fragment of text, not worthy of forming into a clear question.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John hisses, as Sherlock sits, sullen, crowned by the halo of motes swarming him, tense, already uninterested.  John looks him over and feels a rush of annoyance at the way Sherlock has placed the light at his back, allowing the sunbeams to shine in Susanne’s eyes.  They have continued their exchange; Susanne is speaking.  John tries to rejoin them.

“It’s all right.  It’s fine.  Mr. Holmes, it was a heart attack, of all things.  On the 17th of April, just over two years ago.  He couldn’t cope, he’d been drinking and taking a lot of pills, and he got in a row outside a club in Hammersmith.  They took him in for treatment of concussion and detox and his heart gave out in the night.  A clot.  An MI, Doctor Watson,” she says, turning to John again.  “It was such a shock, I mean he was only thirty-eight.  Well.  He had a lot of problems with lashing out, and that night he took it all too far and--”

“On the tattoo.  The date of the attack on his patrol?” Sherlock breaks in again.

“Yes, it is.  But I don’t know when or where the tattoo was done.  I really know so little, I hope you don’t feel I’m wasting your time.  I can’t even say who or what this could be for.  He didn’t say much about his last tour.  We didn’t try to make him talk, which was our mistake.  We made a lot of mistakes,” she says, shuddering a bit and shaking her head.

“You weren’t close.  So how did you learn he had it?” 

“I didn’t know until I was at the hospital, when they -- called me in.  As his next of kin.  But it was this one, I am absolutely positive.”  Susanne’s cheeks are starting to turn pink.  She rubs at her wrists. 

At the thought of Susanne over her brother’s body John feels still and sad inside.  He opens his mouth.  “Did your brother have any--”

“Not likely he would allow this to be photographed.  The heart and date are for a dead partner.” Sherlock gives Susanne her phone back as if that might be his final word.  _Judging by his tone, it may well be,_ thinks John.

“No.  He wasn’t _gay_ , if that’s what you’re implying.  Definitely not.  He always had girlfriends.  Serious ones."

John crosses his arms as Sherlock sighs down at his own left hand.  

"And --" Susanne continues, "I can’t believe he would just -- well.  Switch over in the army, of all places.  Impossible!”  She goes a shade pinker.  “I need to know how Andrew ended up on that wall.  I can’t believe that my brother -- well.  I can’t believe it.  And I want the painting removed from the exhibit, and destroyed immediately.”

“You haven’t contacted the artist, I presume.” Again, Sherlock speaks flatly.  He is gripping the armrests of his chair like he plans to spring up and leave.

“No.  Not yet.  The girls at the cafe didn’t have his number.  His name is Alexander Nussbaum.  I asked.  I googled him but I didn’t find him.  I was supposed to come back this afternoon because he and the owner are both going to be there.  At four o'clock.  But, what if he knew my brother?  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t even want to see him.  But I have to have that picture removed.   _Swan’s Son_.  It’s --”

“Yes.  I’ll meet them.  We’ll be in touch when I have the painting.”  Sherlock stands up.

“I’ll give you my number, just a moment.”

“No need.  I forwarded myself a copy of your photograph.  John, please see Mrs. Niles out.”

“Oh.  Thank you.  Okay.” Susanne stands, and John follows her to the door.

“Let me help you with your -- right.  Thank you for coming by.”  He smiles.  Helplessly.  He wishes he could undo all the tension Sherlock had brought to the room without resorting to -- bloodshed.  He lets Susanne Niles out of the flat, takes leave of her, and marches back upstairs.

Sherlock is in the kitchen now, sipping at a glass of water by the sink.  “That was hardly a four,” he sighs.  “Or a three, because notwithstanding her ignorance there is really only one interesting point in it at all.” 

“The arse,” John mutters, having in mind Sherlock’s behaviour.

“I need to meet the artist.  Maybe he can tell us something about how brother Andrew came to be photographed, and perhaps something about the man himself.”

“She didn't believe your theory about a dead lover.  ‘In the army of all places’,” John remarks, with a smirk.  “If she only knew.”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep over him.  “Knew what.”

“What.  I’m a doctor.”


	2. Talents that you ignore

At the sound of two incoming texts, Sherlock turns and heads for his bedroom.

“Got her photo?” John asks after him.

“Mmm.  Other one’s from Lestrade.  Coming with me?”

“Uhm.  You should get some rest --”

“There’s been a double homicide in Hammersmith.  He wants me to take a look.  Coming?”

“If you want.”

“Of course.”

***

Just over three hours later, John and Sherlock are at a self-service bistro where John has wolfed down a plate of chicken and chips.  He is presently crunching at a pickle spear.  Sherlock has just finished his second cup of black coffee; he is drumming his fingers on the tabletop and gazing out the window.  He also looks very pleased with himself.  At the crime scene he’d forced a confession from a suspicious bystander (a rubbish collector turned stalker, motivated by envy, who’d killed the Hammersmith couple over their wasteful style of living).  Lestrade has him in custody.  Sherlock and Lestrade will be reviewing some cold cases soon because there are indications that the rubbish collector may be linked to other crimes; it is only a matter of adequate profiling.  A decent morning after all. 

And John had been the one who’d remarked that the slashes on the bodies looked like they’d been made with a bit of scrap metal.   _Conductor of light?  What was I thinking?   John is brilliant._

“What are you smiling about?” John asks.

“Your expression.”

“What expression?” John shrugs.

“Your face.  In Hammersmith.  You were actually upset for a minute.  It was remarkably easy, though.  He walked right into it, didn't see it coming.”

“Yeah.  That was amazing.  Well done.”

Many times before, John has seen Sherlock slip in and out of a persona in seconds, like he had today, but it never ceases to astound him.  It’s often great fun to watch.  He doesn’t have much natural flamboyance or need for acting himself, and as much as he would like to sometimes, he isn’t able to hold to a role for long.  The truth is, though, that Sherlock’s playacting also gives John pause.  He wonders if or when it might be used on him.  

Sherlock’s lies and subsequent fall had very nearly ruined his life at one time, nearly five years before.  As much as he is willing to accept Sherlock’s explanation ( _necessary evil, mortal danger_ ), the pain of being left behind has not faded so easily.  To John, it's impossible to guess what Sherlock is still capable of, and what roles he has ahead.  He can play various people, one after the other, effortlessly; there are times when John wants to applaud while watching it.   Sherlock is able to burst out laughing or cry on demand; he can make himself look degenerate, foreign, athletic, manic, ill, or nearly anything in between; he can impersonate professions to a tee, hold an accent or adjust his speech to that of classes and regions, and say more than enough on nearly any subject to achieve his desired effect, whatever that may be at a given moment. The potential for play seems quite boundless, so much that John allows himself to imagine that -- _no.  Sherlock can’t be asked.  No sense in imagining.  He isn’t like that, is he._  And talented playacting will never equal real life, which is precisely what John is seeing now:  the crazed being across the table, relentlessly himself -- nervy and impatient, with a mind racing with ideas, likely already looking for a new diversion. 

He is beautiful enough as he is.

“Well.  Just an act,” Sherlock is saying.  But he is smiling.  He looks proud that John had enjoyed it.  John smiles back; he has no idea how much weight his approval carries, particularly now, as Sherlock is already planning his next role, co-starring Alexander Nussbaum, the painter of tattooed cocks and arses.  Part of him wants to laugh at the ludicrousness of what he is about to do but for the most part he is antsy, because he knows John will be standing nearby, watching at least part of it.  John will not understand that he is the only thing that makes behaving like that possible (the seed feeling needed in order to imagine behaving that way at all, envisioning what someone would want to hear, when flirting, or acting out a fantasy).

John picks up the cup of cola that has come with his meal.  It occurs to him that it is the same kind Sherlock uses as a corrosion-removing bath on rusted objects.  He sets it aside.   “Your ability to lie so well is probably the most alarming thing about you,” he quips, intending to praise, before realising that his remark has included more than a shade of his own anxieties.

“I see, the superlative in a category of alarming things.”  Sherlock’s smile is already gone.

“Well.  Isn’t it easy to forget what is or isn’t real?  I wouldn’t manage," John says.

“No.  Well, we couldn’t both be liars, it wouldn't work.  Besides, your sincerity is a shining feature of your character,” Sherlock tells him.

“Hmm.  Thank you.”  John seems truly happy to hear that.  Sherlock realises that he rarely compliments John on anything at all, aloud.  John continues,  “You know, I think that as a rule you're honest, as well.  Brutally honest.  I’ve even come to appreciate it.  _Sometimes_."

"Mmm."

"But when you lie it's every bit as brutal as your honesty.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer.  He is thinking about the meeting with the artist again.

“So what are you going to do about taking that painting down?” John asks, inconveniently.

Sherlock looks out the window again.  “Well.  The artist will take it down himself and give it to me, if all goes well.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Not sure.  I’ll decide when I meet him.  I’m thinking some drawing wouldn’t hurt.”

“You can draw?” John asks, with a sort of surprised expression, one that is often thinly disguised admiration.  It is one of Sherlock’s top favourite expressions from John.  His chest is getting warm inside.  The coffee seems to be making him edgy, as well. 

“If I have to.  But I don’t have any real reason to.  The philosophical problem of false impression in drawing and the geometry in it are more interesting than running a pencil over a page.”  Sherlock taps his fingers on the tabletop again.  “Mycroft can paint well but he doesn’t bother.”  _Taptaptap-tap-tap-tap_.  “Shall we?”

“Talents that you ignore.  Must be pleasant,” John mumbles as he stands up from his seat. 

“But you can draw,” Sherlock remarks, standing and pushing in his chair.

John snorts.  “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“No,” Sherlock says.  “The postcard you keep in your thesaurus?”

“Painted when I was about eleven, on vacation.  Which as you can see I never dared send off to anyone I know.”

They walk out into the street.  Sherlock starts watching for a cab.  “The potential is there,” Sherlock comments, craning his neck and looking further down the row of cars that is flowing past them.  “You aren’t always observant but you’re imaginative.  You think conceptually, according to impressions.  You like looking at art.  You try to connect with it even when it’s inane.”  Two cabs have passed.  Engaged.  “You draw when you’re on the phone, in pen or with your fingers, and when you talk to your girlfriends you run your fingers over their shoulders and arms and trace shapes over them.” Another cab approaches; it doesn’t brake.  “You idly trace circles on your knees when you’ve had more than three pints.  You’re demonstrative with your hands.  I could go on.”  He raises his arm quickly and a cab pulls up to the pavement in front of them.

“Not artistically endowed, after all, then,” John huffs, hopping into the car after Sherlock, who gives the driver an address in Knightsbridge.  “So where are we going now?”

Sherlock has already pulled out his phone and is texting.  “To visit someone, later to  _Swan's Son_.  Maybe you don’t want to come with me to the cafe?”

“Why not.”

“You’re tired.”

“No, I’m not.”

***

Sherlock and John arrive in front of a fine-looking study in hybrid architecture, with three elegant, understated glass floors perched over an Edwardian facade, in no way akin to the garish experiments in eclecticism in London’s train hubs or revitalised suburbs.  The man behind the reception desk nods at them politely and wordlessly as they pass him and take a glass elevator to the top floor.  It opens into a beautiful, light workspace divided by lengthy panels of clear and frosted glass.  John still doesn’t know what they’ve come for, but he sees that it is an architectural firm of some sort and they are walking among drafting desks covered in various projects.  A few people are milling about, talking, or hunching over computer screens.  A tall, slender man with receding, wispy blonde hair, dressed in a thin, draped gray sweater, elegant suit trousers and soft suede moccasins, emerges suddenly from a side door nearby and smiles cordially at them.  “Good afternoon.  Come in, Sherlock, I’ve put aside for you a few useful things,” he says.  He turns his quick, pale eyes to his other guest.  “Hello,” he says, expressly to John, who decides that despite the intensity of the man, he is pleasant and open. 

“Jens.  This is my friend, Doctor John Watson.  Doctor Jens Lindberg.”

“I’m Jens, please.  Nice to meet you.”  

“John.  How do you do.”

They step into Jens’ office, which is a continuation of the stylish glass and lightness of the open room, but with one wall of pale beechwood paneling, covered in framed drawings of buildings, bridges and several gardens.

“Jens is an art historian and conservator.  These days he occupies himself with taking the European architecture world by storm,” Sherlock says to John.

“ _Ach, du är väldigt vänlig,_ ” Jens replies, with a small laugh.  John’s eyes meet Sherlock’s.  “I said, John, that he is much too kind to me,” Jens explains. 

“Pencils,” Sherlock says to Jens.

“Yes.  Here you have the oldest from my pencils.”  Jens gives Sherlock a bundle of writing instruments of various sizes and colours, the longest of which appears to be a dip pen in a wooden holder.  “Will they work?  And I have this small book for sketches.”

“Excellent.” 

John has approached the paneled wall and is taking in the drawings of the buildings there.  “And are these some of yours, Jens?  I’ve been to the roof garden here, at night, it’s brilliant.  There’s a fantastic view from there.”

Sherlock looks over at it and frowns.

“Yes, yes, one of my favourites, you can say, when the resources of the client were not my main worry and I worked more as I wished,” Jens says.

John is looking at a watercolour of a lofty glass train station.  “Oh.  So that’s yours, too.  Right.  It’s nice that you can still see so much of the park through this wall here in the terminal.”  He smiles.  “You’ve done lovely work.”

“Ach.  I’m a museum worker, but as a conservator cannot have allergies to varnish and paint, one gets by as an architect.  _Han är söt, Sherlock.” *_

“ _Han är inte min pojkvän_.”  Sherlock's reply seems sharp to John's ear.

“ _Jag tror dig inte_.”  Jens smiles, perhaps a bit ironically.  Sherlock shakes his head.  Once.  John looks expectantly from Jens to Sherlock and licks his lips, waiting for things to take a more English turn.

 _“Håll tyst.”_ Sherlock fixes an ostentatious stare at the framed picture of the roof garden on the wall and decides that he will visit it soon.  He has the urge to turn and take John by the hand.  _Jens wouldn’t care,_ he thinks.  He realises that he is beginning to catalogue who would care and who would not.  _As if it mattered.  Though it would.  To John._ “There’s a chance I might need you to come look at some paintings with me when you leave work,” he tells Jens.  “It’s not far.  I’ll text you the details in a few minutes and confirm later.”

“Of course,” Jens replies.

“Greet Peter from me as well,” he adds. 

“Thank you, I will.  Nice to meet you.” Jens offers his hand to John again.

“A pleasure, thank you.” John takes it and nods.

He and Sherlock emerge from the quiet of Jens’ stylised offices into the chaos of the street.  Sherlock hails a cab and they clamour into it.  After a moment, John sighs and says,  “What were you saying in...?”

“Swedish,” Sherlock answers, a bit too hastily.

“ _Swedish?_ ” John rubs his chin and inhales through his teeth.  “Oh, come on.  How.”

“Basics.  I spent some time in Uppsala working with the agricultural university’s gas chromatography equipment.  But that was a number of years ago.” 

John considers that for a moment, reflects on Jens’ manner, his warmth, and their rapid, unintelligible exchange in front of him.   _Uppsala?_   He shakes off several intrusive images and stares out the window at the receding blur of people and shops.  “And that’s where you met Jens.” 

“No.  Jens helped the Yard with a forgery case that I was involved in, also before your time.  They call him in to authenticate or date artwork from time to time.”  Sherlock is pounding a text into his phone with his long thumbs.  “And as I could have predicted, you immediately interacted with his artwork.  As a way of creating a connection between who he is and your own experiences.”

 _True enough._   “So.  We went there for his old pencils?  Oh.  For you to draw with later?” 

“Upholding the illusion of experience, John.  And it was on the way to the cafe.”

“You can lie in that much detail, can’t you.” 

“When necessary.”

“No surprise there.”   

Sherlock draws in a breath through his nose as if he wants to laugh.  But his face is set in concentration over his phone screen. 

Something occurs to John.  He opens his mouth.  Sets it.  He pauses again.   _Say it_.  “You would do it again, wouldn’t you.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock doesn’t lift his eyes.  His thumbs are still tapping over the screen.

“Yeah.  I know.”

“Mmm.”

“I don’t like that part of you,” John mutters.

Sherlock’s answer is sharp but he doesn’t raise his eyes.  It almost sounds like he is reading straight off the screen in front of him:  “Now you aren’t clear.  You don’t like that I  _would_  lie to save your life if I had to, or you merely don’t like that I  _did_ lie to save your life because I had to.  Neither of which you should expect me to regret.  I do not.”  His voice has also dropped in tone though his face is nearly blank. 

John surveys his friend’s impassivity and responds, “Whenever someone lies, it’s proof that the other person’s feelings are insignificant.  That’s how I look at lying.  It reduces the other person and they’re made unimportant.  In general.”

“You are not unimportant.  I’ve never said otherwise.”  The flatness of Sherlock’s voice is more than troubling to John.  What he hears is also the potential for _which is not to say that you are actually important_.  It is starting to anger him. 

“Lying is disregarding.  Disregarding a person.  Your general disregard for people’s _feelings_ makes me uncomfortable.  Always has.” 

“I don’t think I disregarded you.”

“You wouldn’t.  But it’s the part that came later.  The silence.  I would have helped you.  I would have.”

The phone comes down.  The expression on Sherlock’s face is difficult to decipher. At first he looks upset, like John has impaired his texting rate and he would like to put a stop to it.  John looks again and decides that it actually looks more like reticence. Or has thus evolved.  The movement of the car interferes.  It is a strained look, either way.  “Tell me, John.  What would you have done in my place?” Sherlock asks.  

He has never asked anything like that before, not being one to find direct comparisons between others’ experiences and his own particularly interesting.  And John doesn’t know how to respond.  “Not sure,” he says, exhaling, feeling quite tense, “but I’d like to believe that I’d have done the same and gone out honourably.”

“Mmm.  So you would have lied under duress and disregarded me, too.  Honourably, though.” 

“Right.  Point taken.  Okay.  But at least you’d have handled it much better,” John answers. 

“Don’t indulge in guesswork, John.” 

There is another confusing pause.  “You know, bloody trust issues,” John says, running his hands over his knees, which have started to ache.  He is wanting to apologise but is lacking the right formula.

“Clearly, I’ve done little to inspire your confidence, today.”  Sherlock looks at his watch.  He feels agitated and vacant inside; it is fourteen minutes to four.  "And.  It's about to take a turn, for the worse."

“I’ll look the other way.  Or, you could just be yourself,” John says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Be myself.  Mmm.  It shouldn’t take long, either way.  You can go straight home and I’ll carry on alone, later.” 

 

____________________ 

_* Swedish texts:_

_\- You are really much too kind._

_\- He’s cute, Sherlock._

_\- He’s not my boyfriend._

_\- I don’t believe you._

_\- Stay silent (shut up)._


	3. They belong to someone

Sherlock and John enter  _Swan’s Son_  cafe at three minutes to four.  It is a pleasant place, with a lofty ceiling and what John would consider modernistic light fixtures, with lots of interesting contrasts in metal and wood; there are a few red plush chairs around for colour.  John orders himself a cup of pekoe and sits down at a table near the front windows, while Sherlock saunters along the perimeter walls, taking in each of the paintings there; he seems increasingly intrigued by them.  Already, John can’t objectively tell if the interest is genuine or not, but he chooses to believe that it isn’t, because it is the easier option to stomach.  He finds them far too overt for his taste, and far harder to look at in real life than on Susanne Niles’ phone screen.  He imagines a critic would praise them for their confrontational character, but John is not up for it. 

Sherlock approaches the girls at the counter as if to order but chats with them a bit; one of them nods in the direction of a nearby table, where an elegantly dressed, middle-aged lady (fit, long gray dress, modern cut, strands of steely pearls, white head nearly shorn, red lipstick) is seated with a relatively attractive, mousey-haired man in jeans and a dark blue jacket.  He has a pair of what appear to be reading glasses pushed up on his head.  Sherlock thanks the girls and seems hesitant as he approaches the pair at the table.  John watches as he first introduces himself to the lady, who is gathering papers from the tabletop and stuffing them into an elegant leather portfolio.  She pauses to exchange a few pleasantries about the paintings with him, and begins to make her exit.  She says goodbye to the artist and the girls, and leaves.  _That must have been the owner of the cafe,_ thinks John, meaning that the mousey man (who he would have profiled as a freelance software developer, and who Sherlock has just turned his terrifyingly full attention to), is Alexander Nussbaum.  _Apparently there are still kinks to be found beneath the mousey man’s calm surface,_  John decides, and watches as Sherlock gives him his hand.  The artist shakes it.  Sherlock holds his eyes a second longer than expected.  The game is already on. 

What on earth he has already said, John can only guess, because he is too close to the noise of the street to make out many of their words, but Nussbaum calls over one of the girls from the counter and orders Sherlock a coffee without breaking eye contact with him for more than a couple of seconds.  One of those seconds is when he glances over at John and seems to ask if they should be including him.  _A point scored for good manners,_  John thinks.  Sherlock shakes his head and continues talking.  John pulls up a local news page on his phone and starts reading through it.  The girl brings Sherlock a small ceramic mug of coffee.  It occurs to John that Sherlock has been running on nothing but coffee all day.  This would be the sixth one. 

The two men continue conversing, something about Berlin but with plenty of digressions and gesturing, which the artist is enjoying immensely.  John hears the name Immendorf, and something about an exhibit, a film festival and Trabants.  The painting of Susanne Niles’ brother on the wall is only a couple yards away from him.  It is wearing on him to see it there, particularly when he remembers Susanne’s confusion and shame.  Soon the men have stood up and Sherlock is approaching it with the artist.  John can hear them now, and though it is affected art-world rubbish for the most part, it is still impressive.  Sherlock has been modulating his voice a bit and now that they are as far as possible from the girls at the counter, he drops it and it is dead sexy.  Nussbaum is completely focused on him again.

“Tell me what you felt.  When you saw them like that.  What you were feeling when you were painting them.  The process,” Sherlock is saying. 

The artist stares.  “If you can persuade me to --“ he starts to reply. 

“I can.”  Sherlock runs his eyes over him slowly, like he wants to lick him.  John stares, too, in spite of himself.

“Something tells me you could, yeah.”  Alexander Nussbaum looks nervous, at least in posture, because John can see Sherlock much better from where he is sitting.

“What tells you that?”

“Well, I can’t be sure yet, can I, but I have a feeling --“

“Go on.  Since you trust your feelings.”  Sherlock smiles a bit. 

 _He must have experience with this_ , John thinks.  He can’t remember having seen him flirt so openly with a man before, but really, could an improvisation like that come out of nowhere?   _He’s never laid pavement stones either, but he can fit in with street workers.  What kind of crap analogy is that._

“Your mouth can be very persuasive, I imagine,” the artist is saying.  He and Sherlock are nearly eye to eye in height.  He is probably looking at Sherlock’s lips now.

“So stop imagining,” Sherlock replies. 

 _Yes, stop imagining._ The scene is playing on John’s nerves.   _Wouldn’t it be easier to just ask for the painting and go home?  Buy it?_

“Your lips are -- indecent, you know that?  I’m sure you know,” the artist says.

“But you don’t think decency exists to be flaunted.” 

“No, I don’t, no.”    

“No, you’re not like that at all,” Sherlock purrs, “which is why you intrigue me.  Like, now.  What are you thinking about right now?”    

“I’m thinking about how your lips exist to be adored.  Worshipped.”

“They can’t be, though.  Ever.”  Sherlock’s eyes drop to a tiny medal of St. Christopher around Alexander Nussbaum’s neck.

“You are outrageous, really.  But why not?”

“They belong to someone,” Sherlock says, closing his eyes for a moment. John catches himself licking his lips (Sherlock has pointed out that he does that).  The detective opens his eyes again.  “A true object of worship shouldn’t belong to anyone.”

“You’re right.  It certainly shouldn’t.”  The artist, under the gaze of those mercury eyes, seems to be unable to move.  

“Well.  Am I any less persuasive for all of that?  When can we talk?”  Sherlock asks.

“Whenever you like.” 

“Now.  And when can we talk more?”

“As I said, whenever you like,”  Nussbaum answers.

“Oh, where should I...” Sherlock holds up his empty cup and looks around.  The artist offers to take it back to the counter for him.  “Thanks, Alex.  Excuse me for a minute,” Sherlock says, holding the artist’s gaze a bit and nodding toward John’s table.

“John, a word,” Sherlock says quietly, pulling up a chair and sitting down lightly.

“What are you doing!” John hisses.

“This is getting interesting.  I’m going to carry on here with him, if it goes well I’ll go to his flat and I’ll have a look around, see if I can find anything out about the source of the photographs.”

“His _flat_?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, when you talk to him, you sound like yourself, and _he’s_ waiting for you to haul him to bed.  How do you even _do_ that?” 

“People hear what they want to, they rarely need encouragement,” Sherlock replies. 

John’s eyes go dark at that.  He crosses his arms over his chest and glares.  “You take no prisoners, do you.”

“What?”

“ _This_ is what I meant,” John says.  "You have no regard for that man and you’re winding him up.  What you’re doing is unnecessary.  And you don’t know what he’s like at home.  Look at these bloody _pictures_ for chrissake.”

“They either posed for him or not.  I’m not convinced they did.  Something doesn’t fit.  But he’s an open book, it’s just a matter of asking him the right questions.  We need data, we need the painting, and this is the fastest way to get it.  I’ll text you."

"Sherlock."

"What.  You can’t seriously be feeling sorry for him?”

“Not quite my thoughts, no.”

“John.”

“Having fun, are we?”

“No.  I’m not.”  Sherlock looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“No.  I hope that much is clear to you.” 

John has heard a trace of tremour; it is enough to provoke a surge of concern.   _Sherlock hates this; it is costing a lot_.  Sherlock watches it spread across John’s face and wants to deny it, but no adequate remark comes to mind.  Then he has an urge to apologise but it wouldn’t make sense.

John lowers his voice.  “Look.  I’ll wait for you somewhere.”

“No need.”

“I can wait for you.”

“Go home.”

“Call me.  Text.  If anything.  At _all_.”  John smiles tensely.  “You’ll get it quickly.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock tries to smile back.

“Text me or I won’t sleep.”

Sherlock has never wanted to kiss John as badly as he does right now.  Which is saying a lot.  “All right,” he tells John. He crosses the cafe and sits down in front of Alexander Nussbaum at a small table with large red armchairs on front of it.

***

At 22:39, a text arrives.  John snatches up his phone.

_Got it.  It ends at Baker Street, Friday at 2 p.m. Goodnight, John.  SH_


	4. A pathological truth teller

John visits Sherlock on Friday, just after one.  He is very curious how the painting case will pan out but he’s also been wondering if Sherlock has eaten or slept; they’d spoken briefly on the phone in the morning and the detective had sounded overexcited.  When John comes into the flat, he finds Sherlock at the living room table, updating his blog with some details about biological traces in dust deposits on paintings and furnishings, and learns that he has also just finished a post called _Forensic Applications in Provenance Investigations of Pigment Anomalies:  19th Century Paper Stock_ , apparently developing something he’d been talking to Jens about.  He is glowing.  “John,” he says, by way of greeting.

John reads several random sentences over Sherlock’s shoulder and has a sudden urge to scream.  He has a bag with turkey sandwiches, Greek salad and apple cake, however, and he wouldn’t mind having some himself, so he goes into the kitchen to make tea to go with it.

Sherlock doesn’t really protest when John asks him to take a break from his anomalous pigments to eat, perhaps because he’s turned the right key:“I want to know how on earth you got Nussbaum to hand over the painting.  Details.”  Sherlock, whose table manners are usually above reproach, now appears to have recently deleted them as he takes to eating a sandwich, drinking tea, and talking nearly all at once, eyes glittering at John.

“Yes.  Alex.  The man is a pathological truth teller.  There’s your blog entry title.  His entire body rebels when he tries to lie.  Chatty.  Rattles on like a hairdresser.  Well bred, though."  Sherlock licks his fingertip.  "His speech and other mannerisms say raised by an elderly female relative, one of some standing because he has her flat by inheritance, judging by the Thatcher-era furnishings.  Wall-mounted rotary telephone by the front door, honestly.  He sketched the lower half of my face.  Three times.  I didn’t really hold still and in one of them I am smiling.  Meaning.  Mmm."  Sherlock nips a bit of sandwich and seems to be assessing the size of the bite mark he's just left.  "He based it on my behaviour in the gallery.  Meaning also he doesn’t have need of a static model, or photographs.  See?  The work in the cafe doesn’t match that approach at all.  So.  He told me he’d trained as a technical draftsman at London City and did a year’s internship in Berlin.  For reasons unknown settles for drawing up waterworks projects in CAD on a freelance basis and doing line art for a women’s magazine."  He stabs at a piece of feta on John’s plate.  "While he was out of the room, I had a quick look at his photo collection on his computer.  European national parks.  That blonde actor from that movie you liked, you know.  With that ridiculous piece of chain that appeared on the roof of the train when they were fighting.  You know."  ( _Gulp.)_  "French bulldogs.  In other areas not much of a connoisseur, either.  He doesn’t keep a studio space.  And there’s no sign of painting having been done in his flat.  I took some shots of his sketches of me and some of his framed artwork and sent them to Jens, who confirmed that the brushwork on the paintings doesn’t match the hand of our draftsman, as far as he could see in all the photographs.  Mmm.  I’d asked Jens to call me after an hour, and on a pretext Alex and I went back to the cafe to meet him, whereupon the three of us had a nice chat, we confronted Alex with numerous substantive points on individual features of brushstrokes and his sketching abilities, you know.  Oh.  Alex is right handed and Jens pointed out that the brushwork was done by a left-handed man.  He finally admitted that the paintings weren’t of his own authorship.  Oh.  In the meantime I also sent Molly photos of the paintings and --"

“Oh, shit.  Molly?” John exclaims, while trying to defend his last piece of cheese by poking at Sherlock’s hand with a plastic knife.  “Hey.  Since when do you like feta.”

“And she confirmed that in her opinion, they were more than likely to have been painted based on pictures taken post-mortem.”  Sherlock grins.  “There are signs.” 

“What?” 

“Some of the photographs were most certainly from autopsy reports.  Including brother Andrew’s.  His sister did say myocardial infarction, didn’t she?  A man that age, who had been beaten in the street?  Of course there’d have been a thorough autopsy.”  

“That’s sick.  You suspected that the poses were from post-mortems all along?”

“At a certain point I began to take it into consideration.  There’s a medical detachment about them that reminds me of forensic photography.  Then there’s Alex.  You’ve seen him.  How on _earth_  would he induce that many men to pose for photographs like those?  And would mentally disturbed brother Andrew pose for a portrait of his secret tattoo, for Alex the mild-mannered painter?  Ridiculous!”  Sherlock crushes a cherry tomato in his teeth.

“He might be good at pretending to be mild-mannered, which, well, you know, more predatory types could find encouraging.”

“Not the kind, no.  He nearly fell over in a faint when I suggested where I thought he'd sourced his models.  No.  They make it more visible than you might think.  They want it to be visible.  So, to make a long story short, we found out that Alex is showing the work of, and in a certain way protecting, a close family member.  The painter.”

“A family member.”

“His brother, David.  He was a _doctor._   So, access to autopsy or surgery photographs from a colleague or colleagues from work.” 

“Was he doing all the autopsies?”

“Easy enough to check.  Not clear where the photographs are now.  Or even if he ever had his own copies.  He may have borrowed the photographs from charts.  So.  Died 26 months ago --”  Sherlock drains his teacup. 

“Oh.  He’s dead?”

“Left a double shift and stepped in front of a lorry, instant death, almost decapitated on impact.  The brother wanted to show David’s work, though it wasn’t out of desire for fame by proxy.  No.  His own artwork is superior, in fact.  He is merely loyal.  Unreasonably so.  He wanted to show the pictures, and do so without bringing any scandal on his brother, who was, apparently, not entirely open about his appetites, and so forth.  Alexander Nussbaum has a friend, the lady in grey, and she had a cancellation in her exhibition program.  A small cafe gallery, little known, but still a chance to show the pictures for three weeks near home, so he took  it.”  Sherlock is studying specks of herb suspended in the sauce on a piece of lettuce as if they are flies in ointment.  “Susanne Niles lives nearby, too, or she wouldn’t ever have been the wiser about her brother’s portrait.”  He bites into the lettuce.  John notes that he has been staring and drops his eyes to his own plate.  “It was pure chance," Sherlock continues. "Alex has no idea who Andrew was, nor who might be in the other paintings.  He didn’t have even have a plan of action, in the event David Nussbaum’s work achieved any degree of notoriety in the press.  It was easy to bring him round to reason.  Mmm.  Once I’d started asking him about his brother, well, after the hysteria had passed, naturally.”  Sherlock smiles at John proudly.  “I think I broke him in less than two minutes.”

“And so what?”  John says, his eyebrows furrowing.

“And I got the answers I needed to wrap up the case.  If you can call it a case.  It was nearly as straightforward as they come --”

“Did it even occur to you that the man is probably still very much in mourning?” 

“After so long?  No.”

“Sod your two minutes!  It stays fresh for a _long_ time!”  

“John --”

“Just.”  John closes his eyes.  “Shut up, before I punch you.” 

“I'm --”

“ _Eat_ , damn it.”

They finish in silence.  At ten minutes to two, the doorbell buzzes.

“Alex,” says Sherlock.

“What?  He’s here?”

“Clearly.  Do you mind?“

Sherlock gestures in the direction of the door.

“No bother at all,” John mutters, reluctantly parting with the last sip of his tea to assume the role of doorman.  He runs downstairs and opens the front door to see the artist, with a smallish Selfridges shopping bag in his hand, who at first glance looks like he has a flu.  He is polite, though, nearly deferent in his manners, immediately addressing him Doctor Watson with an old-worldish nod.  _'Well bred' is probably a fair appraisal,_  decides John.  But he looks intensely sad and grey-faced; some of the capillaries around his eyes are broken and his longish, thin nose is congested with tears.  John reminds himself that he has been biased in his appraisal; he’s been viewing Nussbaum more as a threat to his and Sherlock’s sensibilities than legitimate artist.  He tries to guess fleetingly how his work must look, if it isn’t like _those_ paintings.  When John examines him at this nearness by the door, he sees that despite being at least five years younger than him, Alex’s temples are completely grey.  And despite his height and presence he looks like he would be gladdest to disappear.  John invites him to come upstairs and wonders to himself how much of Alex’s enervated appearance today is Sherlock’s doing.   

Sherlock and Alex exchange a few words, relatively agreeably, while John cleans up the table and puts the kettle back on in the kitchen.  Alex refuses tea, however, and just as John is looking for a neutral subject of conversation to engage them with, the doorbell buzzes again.  Alex goes a shade paler at the sound.  John realises what is happening just as Sherlock asks him to go get the door again.  It will be Susanne Niles, of course.   _Why be humane about it when you can be Sherlock._

John takes her coat and hangs it up, smiling weakly.  When she enters the flat, she greets Sherlock, who turns to Alex with the air of an experienced cocktail party host.

“Alexander Nussbaum,” the detective says, “this is Susanne Niles.  Mrs. Niles, Mr. Nussbaum would like to have a word with you about the painting of your brother, Andrew.”

Susanne sniffs.  She looks at Alex with open disgust.  “What is this supposed to mean?  I told you.  I told you I didn’t want -- _contact_ \--“ she blurts out.  “What can _he_ know about who my brother really was?” she asks Sherlock heatedly. 

“Very little, I assure you.  John?”

Sherlock turns, nods to John and leaves Susanne Niles and Alexander Nussbaum standing face to face in the middle of the living room.  Sherlock guides John into his bedroom and closes the door behind them.

In a matter of a few seconds, John can already hear the soft, breaking tones of Alex’s voice, and Susanne weeping.

“Is this really your best idea?” John asks, walking back toward the bedroom door.

“They don’t need us,” Sherlock says.

“What are you doing this to them for?  What can they possibly have to discuss?”

“More than you’d think.  Remember, they’ve both lost their only brothers under tragic circumstances and are reckoning with the reappraisal of said brothers.  That’s what finally convinced Alex to destroy the canvas for her.  Well, actually I cut it apart, since he wasn’t able to destroy it himself.  He is giving the remains of it to her now.  He agreed to tell her everything he knows, and they can work it out without us standing over them.”

“All right.  Wow.”

“Thank you for lunch.”

“Sure,” John answers.  “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, and Jens sends his regards.”

“That’s nice of him, tell him hello.” 

“He sent over the sketches that Alex did.  He said he thought you would want to have them.” 

“Why does he think that?”

“Ask him.” Sherlock picks up a paper folder from his night table.

“Did they turn out well?” John asks, taking the folder sceptically.

“Not sure.  You can assess that yourself.”

John clears his throat and opens the cover.  And he decides on the spot that yes, he wants to have them.  Since Sherlock is standing in front of him, most probably watching his face, he closes the folder, nods his head, and shrugs.  “Yeah, uhm, well done.  Sure, I’ll have them, why not.”

“Oh, I think they’ve finished.  Shall we?” Sherlock opens his door and slips out of his room. 

John takes a deep breath and follows; the first person he sees is Susanne, who is dabbing at her eyes with a tissue but trying to smile at them.  Alex is sitting on the sofa now, looking even worse than when he’d arrived, with fresh tear stains on his face.

“Thank you, I don’t know how to thank all three of you for your help.  I’m glad we had a chance to talk things through.  Thank you, Mr. Nussbaum, for helping me put this to rest.  I’m so relieved.  I know it was difficult for you to do what you did.  I am so sorry for your loss, I really am.”  Susanne is choking up again with emotion.  Alex’s eyes meet Sherlock’s and hold them for a long moment.  He looks completely exhausted.

Susanne needs to go pick up her daughter, as she explains, so she leaves quickly with the cut canvas.  John goes back into the kitchen and pours a glass of water for Alex.  When he approaches Alex and Sherlock, the detective is asking him when they can meet to discuss something.  Alex tells him, “Whenever you like.”  This time, Sherlock’s voice is flat, and Alex’s devoid of any expectation or invitation.  John hands Alex the glass without a word and goes to sit in his armchair to read a bit.  Alex drinks the water in silence and stands up to go.  Sherlock is studying John in his chair.  “We’ll be in touch, then,” he says to Alex a bit absently.  “You have the numbers.  If I don’t answer on mine, call John.”

John bristles at that but doesn’t add anything more to the scene besides, “Goodbye.”


	5. Re-seeing, if you will

WEEK ONE _Food Garden Cafe, Selfridges, Oxford Street_

Alex has drawn a series of shapes on the first free page in Jens’ old sketchbook.  He adds a sun symbol near each in various positions to signify a light source, and watches as Sherlock fills them in with gradients of shading.  “So you’ve done this before,” he says, as he wraps and unwraps his fingers around his steaming cup of coffee. 

“Not recently.”  Sherlock frowns at the page with annoyance.  He can’t recall the best way to shade a side-lit sphere _._ Less than two hours before, Lestrade had sent him off a crime scene after only fifteen minutes, for no better reason than that a coroner visiting from Manchester had come sooner than expected.  Keeping up appearances.  Sherlock is running through what he can remember of the state of the grass near the victim’s head.  Nothing suspicious in it after all, perhaps. 

He flicks Jens’ oldest mechanical pencil around in his fingertips; it is of a substantial weight, with dozens of diagonal grooves, properly tooled by a machinist, on its grip.  The matte grey enamel on the barrel has taken on a shine in places from years of contact with the side of Jens’ finger; it has to have been a favourite of his.  It was the finest of all the tools he’d included in the bundle, hidden in the centre as if meant to be discovered last.  A gift.  At some point he’d scratch-engraved his initials into the cap, a tiny, logo-like _JIL_ that might be easy to overlook, if it weren’t so difficult to overlook.  _Flick_.

Sherlock recognises that he cannot concentrate well around Alex.  Alex is guarded today (he really only livens up when he is drawing something) but he is still supplying a constant stream of peripheral information.  His overall deportment, while acceptable, and his voice, while not entirely irritating, do not recompense the threat of imminent emotional collapse in the man.  His eyes are soft and distressed.  Sherlock has seen him cry three times already -- at the cafe, Alex’s flat, and at Baker Street with Susanne.  He wants to shred everything within reach to pieces when people cry in earnest and any potential for crying is also unnerving.  

Alex’s jacket is good, dark blue, but made of corduroy and the fabric hisses when he moves his arms much; John has a similar one but it isn’t as noisy -- much softer.  He has on a collarless blue Oxford shirt with three buttons on its placket, very fine.  A thin cardigan sweater, grey.  Alex has his reading glasses in the chest pocket of his jacket.   _Phenolic resin with the appearance of tortoiseshell.  Bakelite.  Why Bakelite.  Reeks of formaldehyde when rubbed or warmed.  Brittle.  Cracks easily; frames at least fifty years old.  Nostalgia?_  They are about to slide out and fall onto the tabletop because Alex is leaning forward as he concentrates on the lead of Sherlock’s pencil scraping along the paper.  Sherlock has the urge to shove them down with the end of Jens’ pencil.  _Cracks easily._   Alex’s jacket buttons also tick against the table from time to time when he shifts his arms; his wristwatch, which is occasionally fully visible, is nearly as old as the glasses, in excellent repair, of a sleek profile but self-winding, with a lolling _slip-tick-slip-tick_ sound that begs to be counted.  He smells of the Penhaligon’s ( _lime, uncomplicated_ ) Sherlock had seen in his flat a few days before.  Something Mycroft might have worn at college, perhaps.   _A gift?  Irrelevant._   Alex has dark blonde hair, like John, which is shot with grey, but Sherlock doesn’t consider him _mousey_ , as John had called him.  _Why ‘mousey’?_

“Why is that?”  Alex is asking.  He looks like he has a vicious headache.  “No time for it?” 

“Didn’t have the need for it.” 

This response strikes Alex as dismissive but he decides that one shouldn’t argue about the non-precedence of art over someone’s other work.  He has learned who Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson are.  Not being one to follow news or watch telly, their names had passed under his radar until now -- disturbing, in hindsight, he thinks.  For the sake of upholding the propriety he still has about him, Alex tries to put aside his discomfort, displeasure (at himself, for thinking Holmes had ever had any actual interest in him), and his distaste for feeling indebted to him.  He must endure.  “Well, may I ask what were you drawing before?” he asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “Maps, a few scientific illustrations, anatomical drawing a few years ago.” 

“What do you need me for, then?”  Alex asks, as this question overarches all others in his head at the moment.

“To teach me to draw, obviously.”  Sherlock sets down Jens’ pencil and folds his hands on the table next to it.  “You draw features well.”  An understatement, but Sherlock is not here to eulogise.  “And I want to draw a person.”

“I’ve never taught.  I don’t know if I’m able to explain what I do.”

“So make an effort.” 

Alex winces at that, and goes back to blowing on his coffee.  Then he says, “I feel that in spite of my best efforts, I may not be able to help you.”  

Being grateful to a person like Sherlock already feels menacing to Alex.  As a person, Sherlock is mesmeric and remote at once; he is stunning; he is also exhausting to be with, and Alex is not sure he would like to meet him with any regularity.  He adds:  “Once again, I believe I’ve failed to recognise your true intentions.  I do not see what more you could possibly need from me.”

Sherlock squeezes his teeth together at hearing another of Alex’s equivalent expressions for _piss off._   _He is somewhat like John, sketchy and unbelieving,_ Sherlock thinks.  _Upset about being pushed into yet another show of good will.  Still insulted?_   Sherlock decides to change his approach.  “You can count on my discretion about your brother’s authorship of the paintings.  The incident involving the lady will not be heard of again, and if other difficulties should arise regarding the identity of the subjects, I will help you,” he says.  “I want your criticism and instruction.  I’ll do the work and practice on my own.” 

Alex studies him carefully in return.  He doesn’t appear reassured.  “And what do you see as your main weakness in drawing, if any?”

“If I want to draw a person, I don’t know what to look at,” Sherlock replies. 

“After watching how you work, I am afraid I’m not prepared to believe that,” Alex states.  

“On the contrary.  You should believe me all the more,” Sherlock says.

“You are quite confusing, Sherlock,” Alex replies, suddenly tapping his glasses down into his pocket.

Sherlock can’t recall having ever been told that he is confusing.  “The question is where to start, or how much detail is enough, if I want to draw a person,” he says.

Alex looks as if he were about to decide on a quantitative answer.  He sighs.  “Don’t look at a person as the sum of a collection of hundreds of minute details.”

“But that’s what they are.”

“So I understand, Sherlock, that you look at people like you do at everything else.  Objectivising them.”  Alex notes that his drink is nearly of a consumable temperature and takes a sip. 

“Yes.  I do.” 

“Wrong approach.  It underlies everything else.  You should look for an overall impression, and work down to details at the end.  Not the other way around, that you take in as many details as you can and generate a profile.”  He sips again.  “As you are doing now.” 

Sherlock exhales noiselessly.  He has been twirling Jens’ pencil in his fingers again and staring at Alex while he talks.  Residual fidgeting of a former smoker.  Mannerisms that make him look far more annoyed and distracted than he actually is; John has drawn them to his attention before.  He stops.  “I won’t disregard details if they are what I want to have on paper in the first place,” he explains. 

“No, but all you can really do is catch an essence.  Of some of the details.  Very few of them, actually,” Alex says.  “You have to choose which ones you’ll focus on before you even put your pencil to paper.  Choose what you think is most interesting.”

“Show me what you mean.”

“How shall I do that?”

“How you initially approach a sketch.  I want to watch you work.  On someone here.”

“Sure, of course.  Choose someone.”  Alex is already relaxing.  He picks up his sketchbook.

“Mmm.  Take the porn-addicted, recently-divorced asthmatic barista from Bristol over there as an example.”

Alex, very unexpectedly, bursts out laughing.  “Dear Lord.  You know Barry?”

***

_11am Thursday is okay.  Alex_

_Not Selfridges.  Where?  SH_

_SMITF, cellar.  Alex_

_Unsurprising.  SH_

_Or SMITF courtyard outdoors w/ smell of T.Square.  Alex_

_Cellar.  SH_

***

“This is overly technical in character.  We aren’t making a book of paradigms.  I want you to approach drawing like this, that you are not drawing, for example, a chair, as a series of lines, like a diagram, but that you’re drawing all the lighter and darker areas that make up a chair.”  Alex picks up his pencil and eyes a chair nearby.  “Like this, please watch what I am choosing to look at.”  He begins drawing patches of lighter and darker shadow.  “The chair emerges on paper as an illusion created by gradients on and around it.  You’ll have to practice but that is one of the most important things to bear in mind.  At least it helps me.”

_Slip-tick, slip-tick, slip-tick, slip-tick, slip-tick._

“Illusion by gradients?”

“You said you want to draw --“

“A person.”

“So the same will apply to drawing John,” Alex says, as he continues drawing his chair picture.  Sherlock sets his teeth again and watches the seat coming into view.  It is a series of scribbled areas of grey, yet in ideal perspective.  _Nice_.  “Similarly, you will use light and shade to build the details you choose to focus on to make up his form.  Make all the choices first.  You’re looking for the ones that strike you as being the most essential to what you know of who he is.  The way he moves.  What you remember when you are away from each other.  Or the things that flash through your mind when someone suddenly mentions his name to you, as I just did.  His nature.”  Alex glances up.  “What.  Drawing someone you know well is intimate.  It is!  Please don’t roll your eyes, it’s insulting.  It’s a very moving experience.  You’ll see.  Or you won’t.”

“And you wondered how I knew you had not painted those pictures?” Sherlock answers.  

Alex’s pencil slows and he says,  “No, I no longer need wonder.  How did you put it?  I am ‘ _utterly transparent and inelaborate_ ’.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, to cut him short.  “How would you identify the ‘essential’ as you put it, in the way John moves?  You’ve seen him on two occasions.”

Alex is considering.  “I don’t know him, but he looked quite serious, stand-offish, and that type of emotion will limit his movements or turn them within.  His manner might seem closed in some way, if he is indeed naturally self-protective.  You know.  Like, closed hands, averted eyes so that he seems to withdraw.  Not sure.  He has a kind face, though, I imagine he is a nice person.  So I suppose you would find more liveliness and feeling there.  This is really more a subject for you.  I can’t say.”

“Mmm.”

“Fine.  I’m going to ask you to choose natural subjects to practice drawing.  But not him, not yet.  If possible something organic that doesn’t have straight lines, like fruit or whatever you have lying around at home.  Make at least three studies of the same object.  Each time from a different side, with different lighting, like at a different time of day or using a table lamp, but using the technique of drawing only shadows and shades like I’ve been showing you.  No lines at all.  If you can’t see, turn the page upside down, as if you’re drawing it to show someone on the other side of the table.”

“What does that achieve?” 

“You stop yourself drawing stereotyped shapes and you focus on reproducing the shading again."

"Stereotyped shapes.  Mmm."

"Just a way to trick one’s eye into seeing.  Re-seeing, if you will.”

“Re-seeing.” Sherlock sniffs.

“If you will.” 


	6. Judgments of condition

WEEK TWO   _St-Martin-in-the-Fields, cellar_

Sherlock and Alex have been working on quick sketches of liquid in glass, with a spoon refracted in water.  Alex changes the position of the spoon and glass every five minutes and forces Sherlock to draw them as fast as possible, and without the use of straight lines.  After about half an hour, Alex removes the spoon and drinks the rest of the water.

“You have a photographic memory, don’t you,” he remarks, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table.

“No real way to prove it.” Sherlock starts erasing part of his first drawing.

“You ought to leave it, it can’t be helped.  The third and fourth are the best of the lot.”  Alex rubs his forehead a bit.  “I’ve always thought it must be wonderful to -- “

“Which only shows --“ _You’re painfully naive_.  “--That you aren’t aware of how tiresome it is.”

“It’s a gift,” Alex insists.

“What is.”

“An exceptional memory.  A bias for detail.  I’ve only known two people who have nearly photographic memories and the rest resort to training.”

“Mmm.”

Alex picks up his coffee.  “Honestly.  I don’t understand why you’ve chosen to be a detective, Sherlock. It’s -- well, I would say, an unusual choice for someone of your abilities.”

Sherlock fires back, “This from a man who jumps at whatever crumbs drop his way from the metropolitan waterworks, when he isn’t squandering his time on watercoloured representations of premenstrual syndrome, sexting or French manicures.”

“I’m not ashamed of my work.”  Alex’s eyes are sparkling with anger, uncharacteristically full of life.  “There are hordes of people out of work, far more talented than I am.  Why are you making light of having a proper job in an economy like ours?”

“Are you for real, Alex?  You really don’t know?”

Alex replies: “Granted, you address matters of far greater concern in your work than I pretend to imagine.  But it’s vain of you, and tactless to the point of primitive, to laugh at someone else’s honest living.”

Sherlock watches carefully; he has pressed a weak spot.  _Pounded into it._   _Heightened received pronunciation, most certainly the intonation of the woman who reared him_. 

“I am right,” Sherlock retorts. 

That ignites Alex’s entire nervous system.  “Which is the most important thing here, filling the room until it _bursts_ ,” the gentleman snaps, slapping his sketchbook down -- _tossing down a glove, calling for a duel_ \-- onto the wobbly tabletop between them.  Several ladies at a nearby table turn their heads to glance at them. “What is left to belittle, for the love of God!  What can you possibly _hope_ to gain from me?  You see _clearly_ enough -- _and I have been shown clearly enough_ \-- that I don’t have _anything_ you could _possibly_ find _useful_ , of any _worth!"_

 _The curtain rises; the verbiage of a brilliant child to a playground tyrant --  I am nothing.  I have nothing you could possibly want, let me be, I’ve nothing you want._ “I overdid my questioning about your brother,” Sherlock says.  Alex freezes. “And I’ve been told that I am not good with people,” Sherlock concedes.  

“As an honourable man, you are obliged to work on it,”  Alex replies and crosses his arms; his hands are trembling with emotion as he digs his fingers into his jacket sleeves. He is upset at himself for embarrassing them both in public.  

“It was just work.  A game.”

“Very nicely played.  You were _exquisite_.”  Alex’s eyes glint with distaste. 

“I want to apologise for my approach.  I didn’t know you would take me seriously when I met you that afternoon.  And it didn’t occur to me that you might still be in mourning over your brother.  It was John who pointed out both of these things to me later.” 

Sherlock watches the anger in Alex’s eyes dissolve.  Something else is replacing that anger, but it isn’t pity.  Nor pardon.  _What was it.  Bias.  David.  His specialisation.  Neuropsychiatry.  Who goes into neuropsychiatry?  Not an accidental choice, can’t be.  Irrelevant, unrelated.  Irrelevant._

_Slip-tick, slip-tick._

Sherlock crushes his tongue in his teeth.  Alex is pressing at the bridge of his nose a bit.  He opens his mouth to speak.  He seems to be measuring and considering every sentence before he says it:  “I appreciate your apology.  But your questions hurt me relatively little.  Every question directly connected with his death leads me to react in a similar way.  It centres around the suddenness with which I lost my closest friend and only remaining relative.  It remains difficult to accept.  As you see, I can remove all the judgements of condition from what I say if it facilitates anything.” 

“ _Stop that_ ,” Sherlock says through his teeth. 

Alex sees that his face has gone pale and blank, like a mask. 

“I understand _condition and existence_.  Say what you mean,” Sherlock growls.  The music playing from the speakers in the cafe ( _a single, trembling flute, why?_ ) and its exaggerated pathos are making Sherlock crawl inside.  He wants to see John.  Now.  But John is filling in hours for someone at the clinic and if he went and made an appearance there it would just worry him.  He might text, see how he is.   _Pointless?_

“Okay.”  Alex takes a deep breath.  “Thanks for saying you are sorry.  I am glad to see other people who are able to be with their loved ones though I am not able.  It is hard to watch when someone is so arrogant regarding what death is to someone else.  Today is all we’ve got.  You are so lucky because he is still with you.  I hope I am making myself clear!”

It feels far worse than being struck in the face. 

"Excuse me, Sherlock, if you will."  Alex stands up and leaves the table for a moment to go to the toilet.  Sherlock pulls out his phone and sends a text to John. 

_Visit you?  SH_

John’s response finally comes as Alex is walking back to the table. 

_Slammed today.  Everything okay?_

“Carry on,” Alex says.  He does not sit down.

“No.” Sherlock puts his phone back in his jacket pocket.  “But we might go.”

“We should.”  Alex picks up his sketchbook and pencil.  “This is not going well, Sherlock.  We don’t understand each other.”

“We do,” Sherlock says stiffly, and puts out his hand as a peace offering.  Alex shakes it, though he is still trembling; he does not like paining anyone.  “Meet me here at the same time on Thursday and I will bring you what I’ve done for practice, and you will just tell me what is wrong with it,” Sherlock adds.

“Agreed.”

Once Alex has gone, Sherlock eyes the menu of the cafe.  He sends another text to John.

_OK. Bring you some lunch?  SH_

_No time to eat but nice of you, thanks._

After about fifteen minutes, there is another text from John:  

_How about dinner tonight?  Angelo’s at 7?_

_OK.  See you then.  SH_

Sherlock can hardly contain himself the entire day.  Adrenaline.  He occupies himself with writing up some notes on chemical depigmentation.  It will make an excellent post, he decides.  At precisely seven, he is at Angelo’s.  When John comes and sits down across from him several minutes later, he is smiling.  _Beautiful man._  “Hey, Sherlock.  Ufff.  Starving.”  He picks up a menu and then remembers he knows it by heart.  “How are things?”

“Fine.  Well.”  Sherlock leans forward and says, “So.  Tell me how your day was.”

John looks startled.  “What?”

“I mean, how was your day.  How were your patients, you, everything.”

John looks at him and nods.  “Right,” he laughs.

 _Strikes him as bizarre.  It would.  Problem._ “Yes.”

“All right.  I, uhm, saw nineteen of them today.”  He seems to have decided that’s not the right answer.  He pushes the sleeves of his jumper up a bit.  “What would you like to know about them?”

“Anything interesting?”

“No, just the usual post-paycheck things.”

“Post-paycheck?”

“You know, people with regular incomes get paid.  And, then you get a lot of patients with GI tract problems, complications from alcohol, you know.”

“Why GI tract problems.”

“Mortals who actually eat, and who get paychecks, and are living from one paycheck to another, sometimes overeat and overdo the alcohol as soon as they have a bit of money in hand.  During the holidays even worse.  It happens every month.  Just something I’ve noticed,” John explains.

“Age, gender, income dependent?”

“Probably.”  John looks at Sherlock.  “Oh no, I’m giving you ideas.”

“You always give me ideas.”

John looks at him for a long moment.  Then he laughs shortly through his nose.  “Sure.”

“So what else happened today?”

“It was just a mill, of people in and out, a blur.”

“Mmm.”

“I should have taken you up on your offer earlier.  I could have used the break,” John comments.

“Okay, another day.”

“You know, there was one funny thing today.”  John starts giggling.  “This man.  One of the GI distress crowd.  He thought he had colon cancer.  He doesn’t, because it would have come on last night after dinner, so I checked him out and told him it was all right and when he left I heard his wife and she was yelling that she’d had a gut feeling that everything was fine and he started shouting that it was his bloody gut...”

John is still laughing when he leaves to go home.  The next day he drops in to Baker Street mid-morning, and nearly spies a few charcoal drawings in the process.  Sherlock impulsively throws some forensics journals over them.

“A human heart.  Why do I even --” John says, when he walks into the kitchen.

“Bifurcation blockage, fifty-six years of age,” Sherlock says.

“Can I have a look?  Enlarged, poor sod.  And why are you staring at a heart, on a plate, on the kitchen table?  Forget I asked.  Anything on?”


	7. Enough natura mortua

WEEK THREE   _St-Martin-in-the-Fields, cellar_

“Heart valves.  Did you kill him yourself?”  Alex asks.

“What do you think?” 

“That you probably did.”

“I mean what do you think of --“ Sherlock says.

“I was only joking.  Okay.  May I have a look?” 

“Of course.”

“They’re rough.  Too rushed.  Fine for quick recording of a gesture or pose but not for a study.  You should also use much finer crosshatching than that.  Maybe go back to pencil, don’t use charcoal.  Or don’t bother with crosshatching and just shade with the side of the pencil and blend with your fingers.  Ah.  Another heart, or the same one?  I think it’s a different one.”  Alex shakes his head.

“This one belonged to a 28-year-old female.  The previous one came from a man twice her age.”

“Madness.”

“Are they better?”

“They are, but you are still partially operating on stereotyped shapes.  You drew outlines of the valves, but you should have built up their shape using values of shadow without any lines at all.  We need to talk about ground reversal.”

“I drew this one upside down.”

“And it’s better than the other two, but still a bit skewed.  Do you have a clipboard at home?  Try propping it up so you’re not drawing directly away from yourself on a flat plane.  Did you seriously just put four spoons of sugar in that?”

***

WEEK FOUR  _St-Martin-in-the-Fields, cellar_

“It’s always about choice.  Always.  You have to look, but you also have to decide what’s worth expressing.”

“Judging the substance of details for the purpose of using them creatively or conceptually, later, rarely works.”

“Maybe not yet.  But you’re used to ignoring useless details.  This is no different.  It’s a just matter of trusting yourself as to whether you are discarding the right ones.  And moving forward confidently with what you’re left with.  It requires a bit of arrogance.” 

“You wanted to say it suits me.”  Sherlock smirks across the table at his art teacher, who has just smiled and is now trying to stifle it.

“Well.  I want to show you something.  Kind of a reversal of drawing.  I brought a couple of examples to show you,” Alex says.

“Mmm.” Sherlock looks at a night scene of the glass domed roof of the Reichstag in Berlin, lit from inside, with clouds and stars. “That’s well done.”

“You can see how it was made, by scratching the black surface off this card stock with a sharp point to reveal the white paper underneath.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock is turning it against the light.

“It’s a completely different process.  A good exercise for you, if you’d like to try.  It’s a useful technique for removing peripheral objects and focusing on the contours of a subject without filling them in.  You’re forced to reveal them instead.  Or look at this one.  This picture I made of light spaces, in white emulsion ink on black card stock.” It is one of his magazine illustrations, of a woman hailing a taxi at night in the rain.   _Probably for a misguided article about transport safety,_ decides Sherlock, but forces himself not to comment.

“How long did you work on this?” he asks, going back to the Reichstag picture.

“Three evenings.  That view, if you can imagine, was from my friend’s office.”

“Do you mind if I photograph it?”

“By all means, go on.”

Sherlock takes a snapshot against the tabletop and gives the picture back to Alex.

“I brought some of my botanical drawings today.” Sherlock says, and hands another smallish book across the table to Alex.

“Okay.  Oh.  Are they all yours?”

“No.  The first forty-eight plates were my grandmother’s.  The next twenty-two were done by my Mum, and the last thirty are mine.”  

Alex takes the book and flips through it.  Sherlock sits back and watches.

“Hmm.  The last thirty.  Ah.   _Artemisia absinthium_.   _Ipomoea tricolor._ Well.  The leaves on that are very nice.   _Psilocybe semilanceata?_ ” Alex’s eyes narrow a bit.  He keeps looking.  “I think, well -- some of these plants have hallucinogenic or narcotic properties, don’t they?” 

“All of them do.” Sherlock smiles.

“I see.” Alex hums to himself.  “Kindly keep your distance from my coffee.” 

He has reached the end, and has started turning the pages back in reverse order, one by one.  “Your part is alphabetical, by the Latin names, so the choice of _plants_ must have been intentional.  Am I right?  Really?  You see, I’m learning, I’m learning.  Well, what can I say.  These are very thorough.  They’re meticulous.  You know as much.  This is where your powers of observation are ideal.  To record specimens or their variations.  Hmm.  You can always come back to this type of drawing, and I hope you will.”  He studies the page with the electric blue morning glory one more time.  “But frankly,” he says, “I think I like the look of your Mum’s better.  May I?”

“Of course.”

Alex is still turning the pages back in reverse order; he furrows his eyebrows.   _Why reverse order?  Oh._   Sherlock notes that he has stopped taking for granted that Alex is an idiot.  Sometimes.  “What do you think of them?” he asks.

“They’re not nearly as deliberate as yours or your grandmother’s, that much is easy to see.  They were not done for purposes of classification.”  He flips a page.  Sherlock knows which:  a study of eight varieties of narcissus and daffodil blooms.  “Oh, nice.  This is exquisite, look at the range of yellows.  It’s hard to do shading in ochre without it looking muddy on the page.  The dry-brush is well done.  Oh.  Very pretty.  The colouring is fantastic on some of these.  I like that she has included backgrounds or skies in some of the drawings.  A bit random.  But each plate stands alone that way.  Oh, look at that honeybee.  I swear it will fly at me in a moment.”

“Fifty-three.”

Alex is turning pages.  _“_ Of a dark purple rose?”

“Aubergine.  Yes.” 

“ _Rosa 'Cardinal de Richelieu'._   Lovely.  And that is probably your little hand holding it, isn’t it.  So affecting -- I don’t know how else to express it.  It isn’t a picture of a rose in an album of botanical plates.  It’s a picture of a gift, isn’t it.  You see, look how she includes what she loves about that _particular_ rose, not that _variety_ of rose.  It’s brought forward to us, the viewers, as the rose was brought to her.  It stops being a specimen and becomes someone’s real experience for a moment.” 

“Included.”

“Sorry?”

“What she loved.”  Sherlock looks intently at the surface of his coffee.   _Purine alkaloids. Chlorogenic acids. Arabinose.  Sucrose, tryptophan. Lipids.  Aliphatic acids --_

Alex flips back to the plates drawn by the grandmother and admires them in silence.

***

“Interesting that you chose to sketch severed human fingers instead of drawing your left hand like I asked you to,” Alex remarks.

“They don’t shake when I forget to eat dinner.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“Okay.  I couldn’t focus on my own hand.”  Sherlock smiles to himself.

“Let me have a look at them.”

“What do you think?”

“Not bad.” 

“You’re likely the most atrocious liar I’ve ever met, Alex.” 

“All right, I’ll tell you your way, okay?  Your shading around the nail beds makes them look dirty.  Perhaps they were, but I doubt it.  You also neglected the shading on the table around this one, here.  In that light this shadow would have extended much further, to here.  It is out of agreement with all the other shadows.  You most likely drew them all at different times of day.  You drew in lines, again, showing your continued reliance on stereotyped shapes.  Do not think in schemas.  It’s not about economy of thought and movement.  Hmm.  Dreadful highlights on the rounded edges of the fingertips, which do not look round, but flattened, somewhat like your own fingertips, except that yours are mechanically damaged from pushing down on violin strings, like my Auntie Claudia’s were, and here we have an error in shading.  The knuckle here almost seems inverted.  These areas -- here -- should actually be among the lightest ones.  You were supposed to try using a rubber to bring out the light patches, and you tried to in places on this one, but when the pencil work is already too dark it won’t help.   Too heavy-handed.  You were rushing through your sketches again.  Focus, discard the extra, refocus.  Use a lighter touch.  Why are you laughing?”

“Thank you.  You’re improving.”

“Should I be worried that you think so?  Probably.”

“So I’ll fix them.”

“No, don’t.  They need to be redone.”

“The fingers have gone back for cremation.”

“Of course they have.” Alex shudders.  “Sherlock.  I beg you.  Enough _natura mortua_.  You’re going to go and draw John.  Choose one gesture, for example one limb or one feature, and try to focus on the visceral and not the diagnostic aspect of catching his shape.  That’s difficult enough to start.”

***

“So how was work?”  Sherlock asks, sitting down. 

John has settled down in what will probably always be his favourite armchair.  His back is hurting today and he is thinking about how he doesn’t have a proper chair at his flat.  _Not likely Sherlock would part with this one.  Visit more frequently._   _Ouch_.  “Today there were a lot of people just wanting prescriptions.  A lot of patients just wanting to self-medicate.  One woman asked for some pills to cure snoring.  It’s the adverts, I think,” John says. 

He looks at Sherlock carefully.  It’s not his imagination anymore.  Sometimes his friend almost looks _happy_.  Randomly.  John would like to ask about it but doesn’t know where to start.  _What is it._ Recently he has looked more manic than usual, eating less than ever, with a strange keenness in his eyes.   _Bloody gorgeous when you smile.  Seriously.  What are you up to?_  


	8. A monogamist among tools

WEEK FIVE _St-Martin-in-the-Fields, cellar_

Alex has his reading glasses on and is studying each of Sherlock’s sketches, some of which have been done in ink.

 _Slip-tick, slip-tick, slip-tick._  

“Those frames on your glasses.  They would tend to crack,” Sherlock says.   _Blast your watch._

“They have,” Alex replies, distractedly. “Twice. But I’ve had them repaired.”

“Have you?”  Sherlock is suddenly interested, mainly in how that had escaped his notice.

“On the insides of the arms, near the pins.  You can look at them if you like,” Alex says, clearly indulging him.  He removes them, rubs them against his sweater and hands them over.  He is rubbing at his nose where their weight had just been.

“Impractical.  Fragile.  Obsolete.  But you use them frequently.  Whose?”   

“My great uncle Henry’s.”

“That is his watch.”

“Yes.”  A small smile is playing at the corners of Alex’s mouth.  “Would you like to see it?”

“The mechanism.  It’s infuriating.”

Alex takes it off his wrist and passes it over to Sherlock.

“Is it?  I don’t notice anymore.  Sher -- I’d rather you didn’t open it.  I’m sure you wouldn’t damage it, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

Sherlock looks it over.  _Pity_.  It is certainly beautiful inside, but of course he will not pry it open.   _Not today, anyway_.

Alex has put his glasses back on and returned to the drawings, as if he cannot look at Sherlock with the watch.  “Your nib is not terribly good.”

“It belonged to Jens, it’s bent to his hand.  Here,” Sherlock says, holding out the watch.  “Keep it in your pocket.”

“Of course,” Alex says and puts it in his trouser pocket.  “I’ll, well.  I’m correcting these, for your reference.”  He is concentrating on the page below him.  Looking at it a bit too intently, in fact; something has got under his skin.  “My ink will be slightly less bluish so you’ll see where.  You need a virgin.  Nib.  Because otherwise -- this one, as you know, has made for a messy line, with over-corrections.  You need to apply too much pressure to correct what’s been bent by another’s hand.  It will distort your own line completely.  Or damage the paper.  I imagine you must have some experience with graphology in crime-solving, don’t you?”

“Occasionally.”

“So you know what I mean about fountain pens and borrowed nibs.”

“Of course.”

“They shouldn’t be shared.  You know, one time a girl in my class asked to borrow a fountain pen from our professor and he was so furious I thought he’d slap her.  He started shouting, at all of us, I remember he said, ‘the pen is to be cherished!  For it is a monogamist among tools!’  Seriously, to this day I tend not to borrow pens, even biros.  Permanent trauma, I suppose.”

Sherlock chuckles.

“Have you shown any of these to John?” Alex asks, flipping through ink sketches of John’s hands and a few loose line drawings of John’s form in pencil, seated in profile, as he’d been while reading.

“No.”    

“You really should.  Oh, I see.  He's got no idea you’ve been drawing him?”

“Mmm.”

“Show him when you have a chance, he’ll probably be flattered.” 

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Such grotesque and risky work by day,”  Alex smiles.  

Sherlock sighs in irritation.

“It’s a proper drawing of your doctor’s hands holding a book.  Too much self-disclosure?  Well.  You always have a choice -- close them in a book, or share and interact.  Letting others look and criticise is part of the creative process, as unpleasant as it is.  But would he laugh at you, for being able to draw a severed finger or be disturbed that you’ve drawn a picture of him?  Would he tell you to stop?”

“It isn't clear what he’d find disturbing, obviously.”

“No, but the problem is slightly different.  You can’t ever control what anyone will think of it.  Because they generally take whatever they want to from it, and you are left wondering why on earth they reacted the way they did and not otherwise.  It can be quite disappointing, really.  But you create a _potential_ interaction, knowing that perhaps someone will pick it up and take to it.  Is this making sense?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well.  Anyway.  These are really only an emotional investment from your side.  They look neutral to me.  There aren’t any valid reasons not to show them,” Alex says, as if he has the decisive word.

“Define ‘valid’.”

“No, no.  _Facta, non verba_.  All the more so from my side, I’m afraid.  I have a deadline tomorrow and four more drawings to ink in.  Forgive me, but I’ll need to go finish them now.”  Alex gathers his things from the tabletop.

“ _Nulla dies sine linea_ ,” Sherlock replies, standing up from his chair and pushing it in.  “Stay well.”

Alex’s eyes are shining at that; he smiles broadly. 

_When living as an open book, Alex, how do you stay alive?_

***

_Can I come by around 6?_

_Of course.  Dinner?  SH_

_No, have plans.  See you at 6._

***

Sherlock has the entire wall around and above his fireplace covered with papers and notes, pinned one on the other, in layers.  He is looking for a pattern in several robberies and assaults that he feels close to attributing to the infernal rubbish collector.  The case is moving slowly but there is progress.  Now it is a matter of finding more witnesses.  Lestrade has found seven so far.

John is standing next to Sherlock, peering at the wall.  “I was just thinking about this bin-man today.  You know, it’s actually making me paranoid about throwing some things away,” he remarks.  “Like food.  Or you know, boxes from things.  There are probably a lot of people who are on the edge right now, when things are rough in the job market, you know.  Jealous of what others are doing, and having.  Buying.  Uhm.  I think jealousy is one of the most sinister feelings and worse than a lot of others that lead people to commit crimes.  There's the economic side of things, but he might have killed the couple because he couldn’t find love, or because the man was successful, had a career, or was more educated, better fed -- there are so many motivations here.”

John has been talkative this evening.  _Excited about something, licking his lips._  John has no idea how fascinating he is to one particular monogamist, who is nearly crawling out of his skin, wanting to know where his friend is planning to go later on.  As they stand now, they are nearly perfectly framed in the reflection of the mirror over the mantelpiece.  With almost exactly six inches of open space between them.  Sherlock is twirling the long wooden barrel of Jens’ now-nibless dip pen in one hand.    

“Mmm, true,” Sherlock says.  He turns away, shoves the nib-holder into his shirt pocket and flops down suddenly in his chair.  “It would be better to hear it from him, in his statement, but he refuses to cooperate.” _Where are you going?_

“But it makes you think.  Look at people who are slaving away at awful work, wasting away at jobs they hate, when they deserve better.  They’re all around.  People take terrible pay and people with talent work for a pittance.  They just waste themselves away on crap jobs.  Wasted talent, time, energy.  I mean, I could probably work a lot more hours than I do now, I should do.  You know, go in for proper full-time work.  I’ve been thinking about going into a practice with a friend or two from Charing Cross.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we’re just starting to talk about it.  Long-term plans, but I’m starting to think it’s high time I settled on something more permanent.  Get it together.”

 _Nnngh!_  “Mmm.”  

“So we’re going to have a few pints and talk it over tonight.”  John rubs his chin.  “What do you think?”

 _Pints.  Your fingertips on your knees._ “About what.” 

“Me, joining a private practice.  Three, four specialists in our own small clinic.  It would be a good move, don’t you think?”

 _Move._  “Of course.”

“You think so?  I’m really considering it.  Like next year.  We’ll see how it goes in other areas.  A lot depends on the properties market, and how much we all manage to put aside.”

“Yes.”

“Right.  Want a cuppa?”

“Mmmhm.”

John goes to the kitchen. 

 _Of course...!_  Sherlock texts Jens.  A response arrives as John is returning to the living room with two tea cups perched on saucers, one of which he hands carefully to Sherlock. 

John smiles to himself as Sherlock opens the text and reads it.  _Stunning when he looks happy._ _Gorgeous, crazy creature.  Not even tetchy that I might get busier.  Needn’t have worried.  Could be my chance, good prospects.  Need to get this life in order.  Flighty.  From that text, or what?_ Indeed, Sherlock is now smiling wryly, over his teacup.  John is starting to have concerns for his best friend’s sanity. 

Sherlock thinks through what he is about to do.  _If you love something, set it -- off?  Isn’t that what they say?  Therefore.  If someone is not-overly-annoying, kind-hearted and über-talented, send him away.  Perfectly sound, perfect --_

It makes Sherlock’s entire chest hurt, he wants to laugh out loud so badly, but no clear context for it comes along, and it might worry John if he just laughs, randomly, during tea.  So he drinks quietly from his cup and gazes at his dearest person in the world, who has started talking about his idea for the clinic again.  It is clearly very important to him, so he listens with his full attention.  Soon John finishes his tea and takes his leave, to go meet his friend, the orthopaedic surgeon, for those pints, to talk things over halfway across London, leaving Sherlock, who spends the rest of the evening (and half of the night) on a new drawing. 


	9. Dreadful but beautiful

A new witness has come forward in the case of the rubbish collector/stalker.  A neighbour (a hawk-nosed, sharp-eyed pensioner in a home knit sleeveless sweater with a battered briefcase crammed full of bundled index cards) had carefully observed the habits of the suspect from his kitchen window seat for nearly two years.  _Develop a vast elderly window watching network across London_ , Sherlock thinks.   _Neat_. _Works in Switzerland_.  Sherlock and John have been at the Yard, watching from behind a double mirror as Lestrade takes the old man’s protracted statement.  That is, John has been watching.  Sherlock has been texting madly all along, though he is definitely listening to the proceedings. 

When Lestrade invites Sherlock to add whatever questions he might have, John holds his breath.  He is expecting a quick, edgy exchange.  Instead, Sherlock goes into the room, praises the elder man’s deductive skills and asks to see several packs of the index cards from the briefcase.  He asks for numerous details about the behaviour of the killer, relative to collection dates and other neighbours.  The man offers his opinions freely.  Sherlock looks very satisfied the entire time, and even shakes the older man’s hand politely before thanking him and getting up to leave the room. 

John and Lestrade are both open-mouthed as he passes them. “What,” Sherlock says to their wide eyes. “He’s someone up your street, John, from your LeCarré books.  Retired MI6.  Lestrade, I’d spend more time with him going over the particulars of rubbish-day pick-ups after bank holidays and _paydays_.  John, you are _remarkable._  Got to run.”

John is shaking his head and rubbing his chin.  He exchanges a quick word by way of explanation to Lestrade, and trots after his friend, who is already striding out of the office with his phone to his ear.  John catches up to him on the pavement outside.  Sherlock is smiling as he speaks; he has the slightly manic, pleased expression John has been puzzling over of late.  He is _laughing_.

“I’ve just texted it to you and all you have to do is call and confirm whether or not you want it,” he is saying.  “No, nothing like that, I assure you.  Oh, no.  It’ll be good, Alex.  Very good.  You just have to decide quickly.  Meaning now.  See you in ten.”

John goes cold inside.  Sherlock is looking for a cab, still talking animatedly.  “Mmm.  You’d best have.  And of course you won’t disappoint by politely refusing.  I want to hear you’ve agreed.” 

Sherlock rings off, chuckles, and turns to John.  

He finds that John is grimacing, shaking his head a bit.  _Not good.  Angry about the LeCarré remark?  He likes LeCarré books!_

“You’ve been meeting Alex?” John asks.

“Yes.”  Sherlock is watching the road.  “Today for the thirteenth time.”

“Oh, right.  Thirteenth?”

“Yes.”

“You’re seeing him.”

“I’m not _seeing_ him.”

“You got him to give you the painting, destroy it, and now you’re -- what.  What do you call it.  Whatever it is.”

“What do you think it is, John?” Sherlock looks John over and sees that he seems truly upset.  _Why?_

“I thought it was about the case.  Unless something has changed,” John is saying.

“And if something has changed?” 

“Then I’ll be genuinely surprised.” John crosses his arms and starts biting his lips. 

 _Offended?_ Sherlock sees a cab in the distance and puts his arm up.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” John says. 

“And?”

“What.”

“Anything else?” Sherlock asks, a genuine question.

“Yeah.  Congratulations.”

“On?” 

“Your divorce from your work.  About time.” 

 _Divorce from my work.  From my -- meeting Alex, a divorce from my work.  Like a divorce.  Marriage.  A marriage.  Married.  To my work.  Oh.  Oh!  Preposterous.  John.  Wrong!  Madness --_  

The cab pulls up.  “Not a word more, John.  Not one,”  Sherlock says, and holds up his hand.  John snaps his mouth shut, spins around on his heel and walks away.  Fury in every line of his body. “Trafalgar Square,” Sherlock barks at the cabbie and slams the door behind himself.  He is grateful to sit down.  His head is swimming.

***

Sherlock and Alex arrive in front of St-Martin-in-the-Fields at nearly the same time.  Sherlock watches the artist’s approach; he is still holding his phone in his hand.  He is nearly in tears and is fighting them back; as he comes closer his eyes remind Sherlock of the trembling surface of a concave meniscus.   _Acute joy._ _Alex, afraid and overjoyed.  A ridiculously open book, pages fluttering about the sidewalks.  I’ve delighted him.  Should smile._ “Good morning, Alex,” Sherlock says.  “You’re happy, you’ve agreed.” _Obviously._

“I don’t know why you’ve done this,” Alex is saying. “Sherlock.  I just can’t believe this.  I’m supposed to start almost immediately.  You know, of course.”

“You should believe it.  That’s the point.”  

“Thank you, for thinking of me, of all people.  And for your good word.  It’s too much, far too much.” 

“It really isn’t.”

“It is, you’ve no idea.  Well, and apparently the Reichstag picture you sent on to Jens was well-received,” Alex adds.

“Apparently that is somehow surprising to you,” Sherlock answers.

Alex shakes his head, but it is not in denial.  He wipes at his eyes with his fingertips.  “That’s why you took a picture of it?” Alex asks.

“No, I took a picture because I liked it.  The rest came about more recently.”

“Well.”  Alex finally puts his phone in his jacket pocket.  “I just can’t believe this.  Well, then.  So end your drawing lessons, for now.”

“True.”

“It’s a pity, because I find you very entertaining.” 

“That is a pity.  Can I show you the pictures?  And we won’t go in.”

“Of course, yes.  What have you brought.”  Alex steps out of the wind that is blowing over them on the sidewalk and leans back on the foundation of the church.  He is still wiping at his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he says, because Sherlock is looking at him intently.

“No.  Here, have a look,” Sherlock says.  He takes the sketchbook out of his pocket. “There are eighteen of John.”

“Why only eighteen,”  Alex remarks with a small smile.

“I didn’t --“

“Do you really think I don’t know what this is about?” Alex asks.

“It’s not what you think.” _It really, really isn’t._ _Absurd to imagine._ _John.  And me._

“As if I’d blame you,” Alex says. 

“Your opinion.  What do you think of them.”

“Okay.  Oh.  Good likeness, still rough but quite expressive.”  He flips through them.  “Carry on like this, do carry on like this.  Well done.  Oh.   _Oh my God_.”  Alex closes his eyes for a moment because the tears have come back.  “Horrible.  Terrible.”

“Thank you for your honesty.” Sherlock speaks in earnest, but Alex is too upset to see it.

“Not technique,” Alex exclaims.  “The subject.  What is this.  From your work?  Was this from a murder that you saw?”

Sherlock is watching a flock of mottled pigeons as they circle above Trafalgar Square; the sound of the cars is nauseating to him; the wind is hurting his eyes.

“John is a veteran,” Sherlock says.  The sky looks far too close around the birds as they fly, far too present. 

“Oh, Lord.  He must have suffered so much.”  Alex swallows and touches his chest where the silver medal is hidden beneath his shirt.  “And this?  What is this about?”  He has turned the page without Sherlock noticing it.

“Oh.  That’s for me.  But the other picture?”

Alex closes the book and gives it back to Sherlock, who pockets it.

“Dreadful.  But beautiful,” Alex says after a moment, wiping at his eyes again. 

 _Violet._ “More dreadful than beautiful,” Sherlock corrects him.  The pigeons are catching the wind and circling again.

“As inextricable on paper as in you.” 

“Mmm.”

“In saying that I didn’t intend to hurt you,” Alex says, quickly. 

“You didn’t and you haven’t,” Sherlock says.  “Now if you’ll excuse me.  You have to pack.”

“We might celebrate, please, let me at least do that much,” Alex gestures at the stairs to the cafe.  Sherlock shakes his head.  “Oh.  Working, then?”

 _Tell him?  Can tell him._ “When you talk I see violet.”

“Violet.  Now?  Yes?  Are you hallucinating?”

“Need to go.” 

“Let me call John,” Alex says, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“No, don’t.” 

“But what is making you see violet.”

“Migraine.”   _I cannot carry on like this, I cannot._

“Oh, I’m sorry, yes of course, you ought to go.”  Alex puts out his hand; Sherlock takes it and clasps it firmly. “Stay well,” Alex says. “Thank you once again, for what you've done.  And please, do take care on your way home.  Do mind the roads.”  He pulls his hand away.  

“Text me.” Sherlock sets his teeth and walks away. 


	10. Clear enough

_Not a word more.  Not one.  And not a single bloody text._ John decides he can play that game, too, for now.  But he is also hoping for a case or an excuse -- something big -- to bring things back to normal.   _Normal?_   

Only one call comes, on the third day. _After all that_.  John reluctantly picks up.  “Hello.”

“Hello, Dr. Watson, John, this is Alex Nussbaum.”

 _Shit._  “Alex.  Hi.”

“Above all forgive me for using your number but I haven’t been able to get through to Sherlock.  Is he with you now?”   

 _Damn you._  “No, he isn’t.” 

“I have a request.  I’m about to leave for Linz --”

 _Good._   “Right.” 

“-- Where I’ll be working on a project for Dr. Lindberg.  So I wanted to say thanks to Sherlock again for making that possible, and see if he’s feeling better.  I’d appreciate it if you could at least pass that on because I’m about to fly out.”

 _What?_  “Right.  I haven’t spoken to him.  Try contacting him directly, that would make more sense.  We aren’t really -- in touch, we’re not, uhm --” 

“John, in fact I encouraged him, and if it has led to any misunderstanding, I am perhaps the one to blame and not Sherlock."

"Wh --"

"I told him he should show them to you," the artist sighs.

“Show me what.”

“I mean, I’m assuming he did finally show them to you?”

“Alex, we’re not on the same page at all.  What are we talking about?” John asks.

“Sherlock’s drawings,” Alex replies.

“Drawings.”  John shakes his head.  “You’ve -- been _drawing_ with him.”  

“Yes, for a month and a half now,” Alex says.

 _Shit.  Shit!_ “You’ve been teaching him --” 

“To the best of my ability, I have.” 

But Alex has called John for a second reason -- Sherlock’s eighteenth sketch.  It had appeared to him to be from the perspective of a tall building, looking down at a blurred solitary figure standing below, with his arm raised in an ambiguous gesture, either one of greeting or surrender.  Sherlock had asked him to text, he has texted; Sherlock is particularly fond of texting in Latin or German, and yet he hasn’t answered for nearly three days; usually three minutes would make for a lengthy silence.  Alex respectfully assumes his own ignorance as to how that silence and that drawing should best be interpreted, but prefers not to leave them unremarked upon. 

“I understand that you haven’t seen him, so let me explain," Alex says.  "He felt ill when I saw him last and we didn’t talk for long, and quite inopportunely I didn't ask what I ought to have, before he left.  You know him,” the artist continues.  “Therefore I urge you to talk to him about the reasons he has chosen the subjects he has in his drawings.  More recently their character has changed.  I find his last two disturbing.  He hasn’t responded to my texts or phone calls and he might feel unwell.” 

If Sherlock had heard that, he would have recognised the restraint and care in Alex’s highly mannered speech as a sign of stress, but John’s mind is racing between those words.  

He focuses on the bottom line now, to the extent that he nearly bumps into a young mother and child on the sidewalk as he walks in a brisk march in the direction of a nearby main road.  “Understood.  Thank you for letting me know.  I appreciate it, I’ll get in touch with him.” 

“Thank you.  Good luck to you both.  We’re boarding now, I should ring off.  Once again, forgive the intrusion.”

“It’s all right.  It's -- fine.”

John swallows his hurt pride.  Immediately.  And rings Sherlock. 

_Three days ago.  At the Yard, then they saw each other right after that.  Normal, just excited, kind of flighty again, a bit manic.  What did he say.  Linz.  Working for Jens.  Going to Linz, thanks to Sherlock?  More recently, drawing disturbing things when?  They must be friends, meeting that many times and both still alive to tell of it.  So what have we got.  Alex sees something he doesn’t like.  Bloke could be right.  Shit.  Voicemail.  Pushes away his friend, sends signals for help?   Possible.  Fuck!  Breathe!  Off lately.  Weirdish.  Ill, how?  Definitely different.  Not shagging the art teacher, though.  They’re not shagging.  If they had been.  Fuck, wouldn’t stand it.  Wouldn’t.  Damn it.  So.  Started a row in the middle of the bloody street, for all the cameras in front of New Scotland Yard, went straight for the aorta and he had no idea what the fuck for.  This has to stop.  Clear enough.  Can’t lose him.  This is happening.  He goes, we go together.  Not doing this anymore.  Fuck, pick up!  Dropped off the face of the motherfucking planet.  Voicemail._

John hails a cab to Baker Street, because as angry as he is at himself, and as confused as he has become, he has never taken for granted that Alexander Nussbaum is an idiot.


	11. We go together

The flat is dark though it is mid-afternoon.  All the curtains are drawn tightly closed, and it is perfectly silent.  John hears the thud of his own heart in his ears, the creak of a floorboard under his toes, and nothing more.  His knees ache from nervous tension. 

“Sherlock?” John calls. 

After several seconds, he hears, “Bedroom.  No lights.”

John is so happy to hear that voice that he actually sighs aloud.  He walks to the door of Sherlock’s room and peers in.  Sherlock is in his bed, wrapped in two blankets.  The room is close and warm but he is curled up tight and looks like he has chills. 

John kneels down next to the bed, so that he is nearly level with Sherlock, and looks him over.  “Oh. You are. Ill, then.”

“Mmm, John.”

“You’ve been sleeping?” 

“Migraine.” 

 _Shit._   John puts the back of his hand on Sherlock’s temple and forehead, which are damp and coldish.  He doesn’t have attacks often.  John has seen it happen only twice before -- they tend to last three days and mean no food (vomiting), no light (sensory disturbances), and nearly no movement (dizziness, more vomiting, more sensory disturbances).  John winces.  Now he is even more furious at himself for throwing a fit at the Yard.  “Why didn’t you call?” 

“Phone’s dead.”

“Too angry to.  I don’t blame you.”

“Not angry.”

“You’d have every right to be.”

“Not true.”

“I hate that you’re in pain.  Even for a second.”

“That’s you.”

“Yes, that’s me.  Should I shut up?”

“No.  Just quieter.”

John folds his arms on the bed and settles his chin on them.  He lowers his voice.  “I talked to Alex.  He’s on his way to Austria and he wanted me to thank you from him.”

“Okay.”

“He said you’ve been studying drawing.”  John sighs.  “For a few weeks now.  I didn’t -- make the connection.  I want to see your work, sometime.” 

“Mmm.”

John reaches out and smooths a bit of Sherlock’s hair off his forehead.  It’s a disaster, like he’s been tugging at it.  _Of course, he has_.  “Listen.  Sorry for attacking you, about your -- decisions.  It was low of me.  You made a choice and I respect it.” 

Sherlock squeezes his teeth together. 

“I’ve been angry since you said you’d do it again.  What you did, to save my life, back then.  I know you would.  You’re loyal to the core.  I’m grateful, I always will be, don’t misunderstand me.  But.”  And here John struggles to keep his voice quiet and even.  “I’ll be damned before anything like that happens to us again.  If something goes wrong and you have to bow out, you take me with you.  Do you understand?”

Sherlock opens his eyes.  They are de-focused and slow, yet he is still trying to look John over in the poor light and make out if he means what he is saying.  John’s throat tightens when he sees it. 

“Just tell me the truth.  And we go together.  I can’t have it any other way.”

“You mean that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Thank you.” 

“For what.”

“You are yourself.  Always.”

“It’s not a stretch.”

“You’re brilliant.”  

“No.  I always miss the most important things.” 

“Not true.” Sherlock closes his eyes again.  After a bit he says, “Take you with me?” 

“Yeah,” John answers.

Sherlock shifts his body slightly and sighs.  He pulls the blankets closer up around his neck. “To the seaside.”

“You should.  You really should go.”

“Come with me,” Sherlock says. 

“Where?”

“Norfolk.”

“Norfolk?  Do you have a case in --?”

“No.  I want to spend some time with you.”   

“Oh.”  John considers that for a moment. 

That sounds amazing, actually.  Scary.  But amazing.

“Perhaps you can’t,” Sherlock says. 

“I can.  You should get out of London and have a proper rest.  I’ve thought so for a long time.”

“Won’t leave London without my doctor.”

“No, you won’t.  But, uhm. What’s it like there?  I’ve never been.”

“Scenic.” 

“When?”

“Friday to Monday.” 

“What triptans can’t you take?  Remind me.”

“No.”

“I'll get you something.”  

“No.  Sleeping now.” 

“You have nightmares when you have migraines.”

“Not like yours.” 

“Good.”  John has started stroking Sherlock’s hair a bit at his temples, with one of his thumbs.  Sherlock presses his teeth together again.  “Look,” John says.  “If we’re going somewhere I’ll have to talk to a couple of people and make arrangements.  Straight away.  Like, now.  Okay?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll be back by in several hours.”

“Okay.”

“I’m bringing your phone to charge.  Answer it if I call.”

“All right.”

“Where is it?”

“Sofa.”

John stands and goes to retrieve the phone.  When he comes back he sees how Sherlock follows it with his eyes as he plugs it in and turns the ringer off.  “Some of these calls were just me.”

_Just you._

“And there are several from Alex and two from Greg, and texts.  There.” 

Sherlock is, in fact, watching John’s hands; now one is reaching forward to push back his hair again.  He wants to lean into it and kiss John’s wrist.  If every sudden movement of his head didn’t make him want to vomit, he might try. 

“Okay,” John says in a moment, “I’ll see you in a few hours, tonight.”

When John comes by at just before nine in the evening, Sherlock is still balled up in his blankets but with his back to the door, asleep.  _Won’t rouse him,_ John decides.  He kneels down by the bed again and watches him for a while, until he remembers how sleepy he is himself.  He leans over and pets Sherlock’s shoulder a bit.  He would gladly stay, but there is no sense in waking him and asking about it, so he leaves Sherlock to his slumbers and goes home.


	12. A bit baroque

John is standing near the middle of the concourse at King’s Cross Station, gazing up at the ribbed ceiling (with all the charm of an exploded molecule, he thinks) before walking toward platform eight, departing for King’s Lynn.  He is excited enough that he catches himself grinning as he walks, though when he spots Sherlock, the lightness in that feeling drops away.  His friend looks done in; he is standing at the edge of the platform with his head bent down over his phone, reading.  He seems nearly as mussed and pale as he had in bed two days before, despite being immaculately dressed.  He is leaning one hand against the handle of a suitcase bag, as if it were a cane.

"Hey,” John says. Sherlock turns around and runs his eyes over him, far more slowly than usual. John is so used to Sherlock knowing of his presence before he even wants him to that it’s difficult to believe he might not have noticed his approach, first.  But so it seems.

“Good morning." There is a faint smile on Sherlock's lips that vanishes in a moment.

“Change of climate is in order,” John says, for lack of a better thing to say.

“Agreed.”

“Yeah.  I’m looking forward to this.  It’s been ages since I went anywhere without a conference, a funeral or a murder scene waiting at the end of the journey.”

“Mmm.”

John is a bit disappointed that Sherlock hasn’t commented on that more.  “Sherlock, could you just --“

“Sir!  Mind stepping away from the rails kindly, sir?” A uniformed railway worker is sharing John’s thoughts and waves Sherlock away from the tracks.  Sherlock takes two steps back. 

“Oh.  It’s --” John says, craning his neck to see as a blue engine slowly approaches the station.

They board in silence and take their seats.  John stows their bags in a rack above their heads and drops into his seat next to Sherlock as the train rolls out of the station.  Sherlock glances out the window at the glass panels of the station roof.  “Wake me at Watlington,” he mumbles, and closes his eyes.  John digs through several newspapers that an early commuter had mercifully left behind in order, on a seat nearby.  He pulls out some sports pages and only pauses in his reading to note they’re in Cambridge about an hour later. 

In another twenty minutes or so, he taps Sherlock’s arm.  “Watlington,” he says quietly, and the detective’s gray, red-shot eyes fly open.  Ten minutes more and they are in King’s Lynn.

***

The friends reach the town of Burnham Market just after noon.  Now they have just got out of a taxi and are approaching a whitewashed historic stone building with an elegant foyer, surrounded by a latticed garden with hanging cut glass lanterns, and a beautiful stonework patio lined with pots of flowers.  John is admiring the immaculately trimmed lawn _\-- the kind you could play croquet on with a stiff flamingo?_   he thinks, a bit puzzled by the place.  He’d been expecting something more -- what.  Rustic, wooden, maybe.

“This could be very nice,” he says.  “Quiet.  Good air here.  So, feeling better at all?” he asks Sherlock, who still looks colourless after the train ride.

“Yes.  Wait here a moment.”  Sherlock goes into the hotel by himself and returns in several minutes; he suddenly cocks an eyebrow.  “I hope you won’t mind crossing the green for meals, it shouldn’t rain at all for the next 48 hours at least,” he says, studying the scratches on a metal keyring he’s just been given with about three seconds of interest as they walk across a grassy patch.

“I don't mind.”

“Everything happens there,” Sherlock says, nodding behind them.  “Dining, reception, and the rest.  But it's more quiet where we're going, I was assured.  An annex. Might be a bit baroque, there wasn’t a choice. Or there wouldn’t have been -- never mind.”

“Okay, sure.”

Sherlock opens their door with the key, runs his fingers up the wall and switches on a light.  John almost drops his suitcase bag on the spot. 

“Ha.”  John looks about the room.  His ears have gone pink.  _Holy Christ._

The room is dominated by the bed, which is enormous, very plush, of two halves pushed together, with an overstuffed settee at the foot, all pale blue.  John sees gilt fixtures, ornate cushions, a vase of yellow roses, an exotic rug, a proper writing desk with a mirror above it, and an antique colonial-style desk chair.  That is all John can take in at once without holding his breath for too long _.   All that's missing is Sherlock, wrapped in a bed sheet_ , John thinks, and can’t stifle a barking laugh.

“Well. We’ll keep the lights off.  And our eyes screwed shut,” Sherlock suggests.  

"Heh."

“A bit baroque, after all?”

“No, it’s -- uhm.  Nice _.”  The most ridiculous word in understatements_ , thinks John. _This.  Is._   John sets his bag near the door, and walks about the room a bit.  He peers into the bathroom and stops another laugh with a small cough.  S _inks on antique tables and a bathtub with bloody claw feet?_ “Up for seeing the coastline?” he asks.

“Maybe later.” Sherlock removes his coat and jacket.  He goes to the door to hang them, and John can see that he has cracked a smile. “We can change it, move things.”

“No,” John replies, though it takes some courage to keep a straight face.  Mostly because he does not want to change it at all, and he hopes that is acceptable.  _Acceptable?_    “So,” he says, looking around and sniffing at the roses ( _yup, real_ ).  “Why didn’t you tell me Mycroft’s branched out into interior decorating?”

Sherlock snorts.  “Oh, yes, you haven’t seen the sort of window dressing he does at European Parliament sittings.  But is it all right?”

 _It’s more than all right_.  But how does one admit to that neutrally, when one is not feeling neutral in any way?  So John says, “Yeah.  Good.”  Because it is, dear Lord.

Thus, with John’s approbation, the room remains unchanged.  The friends take to unpacking their bags a bit into a large mahogany wardrobe that smells as if it were lined with cedar and sandalwood.

John has a pressing need to make conversation.  “So.  When’s the last time you were at the seaside, actually?”

“To rest?  Here?  Not since I was at Cambridge.  You?” Sherlock asks. 

“At least ten years, but near Dover.  You were at Cambridge?”

“Not long,” Sherlock says.  Then he chuckles to himself. 

“Aha,” John replies. “Long story?” 

“Well.”

“Longer than the time you spent at Cambridge, apparently.”  John smirks.

“Yes.  Ask my brother to tell you about it. He adores that story.”

“Doubt he does.”

“So do I.”

John raises his eyebrows and looks away.   _Jesus --_


	13. Perfectly at ease

Now that they’ve settled in, Sherlock and John have a smallish, late lunch at the hotel; John wants to go out and see the sandy beaches that the receptionist claims are some of the loveliest in England.  After they’ve eaten, they return to their room, where Sherlock suddenly apologises and says he won’t go out after all, changes into nightclothes and climbs into bed.  He claims it is heavenly and without another word soon drifts off to sleep. 

John slips out quietly for a long walk and decides to visit the bay nearby.  It is stunning, indeed:  wild, broad, white and quiet.  As he walks he meets a lady with a small child riding a beautiful chestnut mare along the water’s edge.  He stops to talk with them a bit and pets the horse; the lady directs him to a nearby inlet with tidal pools, where he picks around in the sand and catches himself gathering piles of clam shells, throwing dozens of stones into the water, and enjoying himself immensely.  He walks along a bit more and finds there are some soft dunes nearby; he can’t resist having a rest there, with an occasional bit of sun in his eyes; he watches a family of four nearby trying to fly a colourful kite in the shape of an exotic fish.  Soon they lose control of it and it crashes down near him, so he winds up fixing it a bit and flying it for the children while the parents laugh and talk and tell him about how beautiful Wells-Next-the-sea is, not far away.  They recommend a pub for good music and fish and from the sound of it he thinks he would love to go.  But for now his main concern is keeping Sherlock calm so he doesn’t get another attack of migraine, and dragging him to a noisy pub wouldn’t do, even in the best of times.  John decides after a while longer that he would most gladly go back and see how his friend is doing, so he hands over command of the kite to one of the children and takes his leave.  It is almost time to get cleaned up for dinner time, anyhow.

When he comes back to the hotel room, Sherlock is no longer in bed nor asleep; his clothes are laid out on the duvet.  As is his dressing gown.  And from the look of things, he is in the bath.  John knocks on the wooden door that separates them.  “Back,” he calls.

“Come in,” Sherlock says, and John hears the sound of water sloshing aside.

John grits his teeth and opens the door, finding that Sherlock has just pulled himself up out of the water so he is sitting a bit to the side, with his arms folded against the long edge of the bathtub.  He has all his hair pushed back off his face.  He looks very relaxed, or tired, or both, and as he looks John up and down the languidness in his eyes leaves John feeling more undressed than scanned.  “Yeah, uhm,” John says, nodding to himself.  “How are you feeling after a kip?”  He goes to the left-hand sink (his? hard to say) and washes his hands.  "Good?"

“The depth is perfect.  We should replace ours,” Sherlock sighs.

“Which.”

“At Baker Street.”

John lets that slide.  

“What have you got in your pockets?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, yeah.  I brought back some shells.”  John pulls several intact razor clam shells out of his jeans pockets. “These are all over the place around the tide pools.”  John hands them to Sherlock, who examines them like a child might, in the light, and gives them back with a wry smile.  John goes back toward the doorway.

“What else did you see?”

“Families, stones, dunes, waves, terns, oh, and a horse.  A chestnut.  With a white blaze.  A -- a really gorgeous creature,” John stutters.

“Yes, going by its hair on the left wrist of your coat.  Do you want to go out?” Sherlock asks, his eyes now getting more animated.

“Do you?” John says.  “Because  I wasn’t planning to, why?”

“Because you’re still in your coat.  Not going, then?”

 _Nope, just too bloody eager to get in the bathroom to see you.  Bloody hell...._   “Only if you’re going,” John says.

“Nnno.  Just dinner across the way,” Sherlock says.

“All right.  You’ll eat, then.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock says, in a voice that would be normal if it weren’t for rest of the scene; John realises that he is still standing back against the door frame, staring at his friend and finding it quite difficult to turn his eyes away.   _Here’s a simple choice,_ he tells himself right then. _Either pretend this isn’t happening, or acknowledge that it is and deal with it._   _It is happening.  Now what._  Sherlock does not seem to be pretending anything; quite the opposite.  He looks perfectly at ease, which John is slowly realising he finds very hot. 

He needs to leave this, _now_. 

“Can you give me my dressing gown?” Sherlock asks (thankfully), yawning into his palms and rubbing his eyes with his long fingers.  “From the bed.”

John fetches it and drapes it over a warmed towel rack for Sherlock, eyes averted, throat closing a bit, before leaving the bath and shutting the door behind him.  As he does so he glances over at the bed again.   _Already taken my side._ _Either very complicated or very simple.  Just how am I going to sleep.  When he's there, looking like that.  Or no, he won’t look like that, but.  Still going with simple.  Shit._

John digs through the wardrobe and his bag for a clean change of clothes.  He passes Sherlock in the doorway of the bathroom as he emerges, robed.  “Won’t be long,” John says, “and we can go have something.”  He locks himself in and decides he’ll get too hungry if he bothers with a full bath so he makes do with the taps as he can and emerges in a few minutes feeling much better and far less sandy than before.  He wraps himself in a towel and studies himself in the left sink mirror for a moment or two.   _Not bad, not bad._   He inhales deeply.  _A relaxing afternoon._ He sighs and pulls on his clothes and towels off his hair again.  _Good._   _Can’t fuck things up.  Can’t misinterpret things.  It has to come from his side.  What are the odds.  Below zero.  Simple, after all.  That’s what we do.  Keep him well.  And try to get the left side of the bed.  Hmm.  Never looking at a claw-footed bathtub the same way again --_

John opens the door and comes into the room to find Sherlock dressed but barefoot, seated on the bed, reading something on his phone.  Sherlock looks him over again, this time with more concentration; John decides his friend seems to have rejuvenated a bit.  In reality, Sherlock has noticed that John has emerged from the bathroom looking as though he has something he wants to get off his chest and is waiting to see what it is.

“Listen.  Uhm.  Sherlock.”  John has folded his arms.

“Yes?”

“Tonight I have to sleep where you were sleeping earlier.  Just, I have to,” John tells him right away. 

“Really?” Sherlock looks up from his phone.

“Y - eah.”

“And why is that?”

John doesn’t feel like supplying Sherlock fodder for deductions at the moment.  “I don’t know.  Just.  I have to sleep there or I can’t fall asleep, okay?”

“I see,” Sherlock says, furrowing his eyebrows at John.  He sucks in his breath.  “Well.  I have to sleep in the very middle.”

“What?”

“Fear of sea snakes under the bed, a throwback from childhood.  Quite embarrassing but unavoidable that you would figure it out sometime, I am actually surprised you’ve never heard me crying out --”

“Serious?”

Then Sherlock is almost doubling over laughing.  “John.  Really.  I can sleep in the bathtub.  Or on a _dune_  for all I care.  Take your precious left side.”  Now he is scrolling up the screen with his thumbs.  “By the way, did you know that yellow roses ‘represent impending departure, good luck, waning passion, or jealousy.  What rot to place in a hotel room.  Perhaps I’ll ask housekeeping to remove them?”

“No, we will depart, on Monday, and a bit of good luck never hurt anyone.  Hmm.”  And here John considers.  “I suppose we can ignore the other two because they don't apply.”  _Wait, that didn’t quite come out...._

“Right you are,” Sherlock says rather brightly.  “Shall we keep them or throw them out?”

“Nah.  They smell nice enough, they can stay.  Ready?”

“Mmhm.” Sherlock pulls on socks and slides into some shoes.

John needs another long walk already.  But dinner it is.


	14. Unimaginable

John receives a text from his friend Will ( _the acetabulum and femoral head replacer_ ) inviting him for a pint the following evening; he writes back his refusal, after which he is keen to talk about his clinic idea again.  He and Sherlock have finished a lazy dinner; Sherlock almost agrees to go for a late walk to see the beach but starts feeling sleepy and lightheaded and begs off; John is concerned.  Once they are back in their room, Sherlock asks for two sub-lingual triptans and a palliative.  Then he flops onto the bed and briefly texts back and forth with Lestrade.  He finally groans and rubs his eyes, drowsily. 

John has pulled out his dog-eared copy of “From Russia With Love” and has stretched out on ( _the left side of_ ) the bed with it. 

After several minutes Sherlock exhales loudly and dials Lestrade.  He rolls over so that he is facing John.

“It’s me.  One would have been carried.  Did you look at the depth of the footprints?  No.  One carried the other in his arms.  Of course not.  What.  One pair will be much deeper where the suspect adjusted his weight under -- yes.  Look for it.  Or the second one began walking backward again into the same depressions?  No, _of course not,_  no!  And what -- launched into flight?  Is there anything the second suspect could have been lifted onto in that spot?  Describe it.  Are you sure?  No.  No, carried.  Monday.  No.  So send it.”  He rings off and rolls his eyes.

“What’s on?” John asks.

“Nnngh.”  Sherlock waves his hand.  He leans over and looks at John’s book.  “That again?” he says.

“Mmm, no,” John says.  “Different one, same main character.”

While Sherlock is not quite reading over John’s shoulder in that position, his intention seems to be comparable.  “Oh, I know this one,” he says suddenly, looking at the cover. “'No substitute for experience', Tatiana.”

“That’s the one.  You, reading Fleming novels?”

“Mmm.  Mycroft read it to me when we were children.  Nobody ever read Tatiana better.” Sherlock yawns.  “He misses the Cold War, you know.”

Shortly afterward he goes to wash up and changes into pyjamas; he curls up in bed, tells John goodnight, and closes his eyes without another word.  John moves to the writing desk to use a smaller reading lamp; after several chapters, his eyes are heavy, too; he decides to turn in.  He looks over at Sherlock -- it is one of the more moving sights he has seen -- the object of his deepest affections, innocent and calm, there.  Close.  He will not be able to hide this from view much longer but he intends to try.  Natural diffidence holds him back, to be sure, _but it is more than that_ , he knows.   He gets ready for bed and curls up next to Sherlock, taking one long, last look at him before screwing his eyes shut for the night. 

He wouldn't bear it if he ruined things.

***

The next day, John convinces Sherlock, who is dizzy from the gale that is blowing through the region, to take a short walk with him along the beach after a late breakfast. 

It is stunningly beautiful there in the mid-morning, nearly empty.  The wind is strong, though; Sherlock feels light in the head.

As they pause for a minute to watch the water, two voices, a man’s and a woman’s, suddenly break in, carried through the wind at the edge of the sea.  _It’s yours, all yours.  Oh, ah!!  Ah!!  You.  Ha, oh!!_

John giggles.  “What was that.” 

“Don’t know.”  Sherlock is watching the way terns are catching the wind in the arcs of their wings, rising and dropping over the sand. 

“There’s nobody there,” John says, looking about him and picking up several rocks.  He throws them out one by one into the water. “The wind must have blown it in, whatever it was.”

“Mmmhm.  Just pressure, viscosity and refraction.”

“Probably.”  John says, grinning to himself.  “Probably so, yeah.”

“Physics, John,”  Sherlock says, as if John had been swearing.

“Ah.  Sure.”  John laughs and tosses another rock.  Another, another. 

“They’re far away,” Sherlock says.  _The water, arrhythmic.  The rocks -- how many?  Didn’t see, watching, and didn’t see.  Tired._

"Yeah."

“When it blows like this it does fanciful things, but not to our senses.  Not really.” 

John is rubbing his hands together.  Sand flies off of them; it is blowing back into his eyes and hair a bit. 

Sherlock watches the last of it fall away through John’s fingers.  “Come, stand out of the wind,” he says, turning his back to it as he maneuvers John a bit by the arm.  “It’s 14 degrees Celsius today, so if I speak downwind the sound travels about eight and a half metres a second faster than it normally would.  And if my words reach you any faster, all the better.”

John laughs and opens his mouth to comment.  "Wh --"

Sherlock shakes his head.  “No, let me finish.  It’s brilliant.  That you came here."

"Nah, it's."

"I’ve come to think there’s a chance you will trust me again someday.  Perhaps even care for me.  I really can’t imagine anything more fantastic.  John.”

He watches John taking that in.  Startled.  Very pleased.  Going a bit serious.  Afraid, certainly.  But stifling a boyish smile the entire time.  “Looks like,” John says against the wind, “we need to rethink the borders of your imagination.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his ears ringing.

“So imagine.” John grins and coughs a bit.  “I have cared for you, for a very long time.” 

Sherlock blinks.  There is one word shrieking through his head, so he says it:  “Unimaginable.”

“And I am waiting for a word from you, about whether I can act on it, or not,” John says.

 _Yes._   _Imprecise.  Must be precise._   “You must know by now, John, that you are the only person I love.  Act on that however you want,” Sherlock answers; he has the impression his heart is nearly coming apart inside of him. 

“When and where?” 

 _John, amazing._  “Choose and act accordingly,” Sherlock replies.  

New sounds are swirling around them now.  John has growled quietly and turned away to face the water.

Sherlock already knows why.  In the distance behind him two little girls are running along the waterside with their father; in turns they are throwing a stick to a dog and giggling at how quickly he pivots around in the wet sand to catch it.  They are trampling over the marks he leaves behind, squealing and laughing.

 _Damn it._   “I want to kiss you,”  John says, staring out over the water, his voice tight.  “You can’t imagine.”

“I can.”

After a moment John manages, “I know.”  He looks over at Sherlock, who is still has his back to the wind. He is pale, but his eyes are burning into John’s.  “Listen,” John tells him.  “I want you to go back to the hotel and get some rest.  Tonight, we enjoy a nice dinner, and we’ll come back to this.  To everything.  All right?  Just.”

“Okay.”

“Dinner.  At six.”  John looks intently at his friend. “Go.  I want you in good form.” There is a tinge of concern in his words but in his eyes there is something new.  Desire.  Unmasked, and unmistakable. 

“Agreed,” Sherlock tells him.

“I’m going to have a walk through the wood here and poke about in the village a bit.”

The children are almost running into them now, laughing at the dog as it runs in hectic circles near them, waiting for the stick to be thrown.

“Should I bring back anything for you?” John is asking.

Sherlock’s heart hammers insubordinately in his chest.  “Yourself,” he says quietly. 

“All right.  If you feel worse, call.  Or take two of the tablets I left on the desk sub-lingually straight away, and call me.  And rest.”  He smiles and looks at Sherlock one more time, almost triumphantly, then turns and walks away across the sand, a bit of a determined march in his step.  Sherlock turns toward the water. 

The children and their dog run in the direction of John, back to the town, after their father, and Sherlock finds himself completely alone.  

And it is just as well.  Love has been given leave to flourish, yes, but its potential seems expansive and lawless now.  Sherlock has acute sense memories of the rapid descent from narcotic ecstasy into misery, such that joy is excruciating, still all too close to despair; the terns, circling and tumbling overhead _(beautifully)_ begin to blur; they return into focus; blur; focus; blur again.  

A text arrives; he claws his phone out of his pocket.

_Vita pulchra est.  Quid agis, Sherlock?  OK?  Alex_

Sherlock smiles in the direction of the Continent.  He turns and walks back against the wind in the direction of the hotel, his pale thumbs tapping over the screen as the wind flips his hair into the corners of his eyes.

_Valeo. < Valemus.  Mirabile dictu.  SH  _

_Pro me Ioannem salvere iube :) Alex_

_Nimirum. S.V.B.E.E.V.  Gratias Alex.  SH_

_Gratias x 1000.  Cura ut valeas.  Alex_

Once he has reached John’s and his room, he slowly washes his face, undresses and crawls into bed.  

He dreams of the terns.  They are circling above him; they grow fatigued; they slow, and in unison spiral upward as if pulled into a vortex; they panic against the waste of sky, which is no longer boundless, but has become a ceiling, a trick.  They can go no further, and they grind themselves against it until their blood begins to rain down onto the sand, and on him; gradually the drops spread though the sand; as he watches it he cannot understand how such a wide expanse of beach has come to be soaked in the blood of so few birds.  All at once he sees the bodies of the terns dropping, as if in their final throes, to meet the sea, but as soon as they near the water’s surface they pitch upward in a swarm, and speed away; he suddenly understands that they are going to look for John.  

_My John._

____________________

* _Latin texts:_

_\- Life is beautiful. How are you, Sherlock?  OK?  Alex_

_\- I am well. [the greater of these is] We are well.  [It is] wonderful to report. SH_

_\- Greet John from me ;)  Alex_

_\- Obviously.  [abbr.: if you are sound that’s well. I'm sound.]  Thank you Alex.  SH_

_\- Thank you x 1000, take care to stay well.  Alex_


	15. Closing the gap

Sherlock wakes up dizzy and seemingly startled by the sight of such a fine room.  John has, in fact, been knocking gently on the door. 

Sherlock springs up, unlocks it and pulls it open.

“Oh, you were asleep after all,” John is saying. 

“Okay.  What time is it?”

“Nine minutes past two now.  Is your head hurting you?  Tell me.”

“No.”

“You didn’t write back.  I asked if you wanted to go to Hunstanton.  There’s a coach.”

“Write back --”

“I texted you three times.”

“Mmm.”  Sherlock goes and picks up his phone and stares at the screen.  “Oh.”

“Sherlock.”  John is looking him over.  “I was talking to some people -- there’s a sort of lighthouse with a --”

“I’ve been.”

“Sher --”

“Go see it, you’ll enjoy it.”

“I would enjoy it more if you went along, is all I’m saying.”

“No.” 

“You’re sleeping _a lot_.”

“There’s no pain.”

John is standing in front Sherlock, looking bothered and a bit hurt, clearly giving him space.  He is struggling:  words are one thing, and acting on them quite another; he hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to close the enormous space that still remains between them.   “So, I’m -- going without you.”  John exhales and looks around the room a bit.

“Yes.” 

“The coach is at two thirty,” John says, looking at his watch.

“But dinner,” Sherlock tells him, “is at six.”

A spark appears in John’s eyes.  Sherlock smiles.

“That’s right.  Dinner is at six,” John affirms, and raises his chin a bit defiantly.

“Hunstanton.  Chalky, but nothing like Dover,” Sherlock says, taking in the heat in John’s eyes.  It is all he can do to keep his voice steady.  “Send me a picture of the rocks at the water’s edge when you’re there.  Remarkably photogenic.”

John blinks.  “Will do.”  He smiles to himself, and leaves without another word. 

Sherlock pulls out Jens’ sketchbook and a pen and tries to draw the terns he’d dreamed about.  It is nearly impossible; it is too difficult to choose which moment is most interesting or essential, if any.  He puts it aside and looks up Norfolk news on his phone.  _Painfully tedious._   He can’t shut off the noise in his head.   

After an hour and a half, a text comes from John: 

_Not so photogenic after all :)_

Attached, a photograph:   _John, standing on one of the rounded mossy boulders on the beach at Hunstanton, banded cliffs visible; photo taken by another [female] tourist -- shadow visible in the foreground, six separate families walking nearby, two weekend kite-fliers, black dog with stick, John.  Amazing.  Posture relaxed in spite of standing on slippery moss.  Mine_.

_Most photogenic in England.  SH_

Sherlock cringes as he sends that text.   _Flirting.  Ridiculous.  Then again, why not?_   He sits up against the bedstead; it creaks under his back.  Two more hours and no plan.  _And a considerable gap in the data._

***

“I want to get cleaned up a bit for dinner.  Or, if you want you can go first.”

It is five-thirty and John has just come back from his excursion.

“No, go on.” Sherlock sits down at the edge of the bed and watches John as he pulls off his coat and starts rummaging in the wardrobe.  “So,” Sherlock says, “did you like it?”  In the back of his mind he is still questioning the text.

“Yeah.  Charming place.  Found a fossil.  I gave it to a kid, though.  There was a good pub, and I think I’d like to go back again, maybe in the middle of the summer.  The people are friendly.  Apparently the sunsets are spectacular on a clear evening.  Would you want to go see the woods near here tomorrow?”

John’s seemingly casual composure makes for an interesting study.  “If it isn’t raining,” Sherlock replies, narrowing his eyes a bit.

“Good.”  John reaches over and brushes his friend’s shoulder lightly with his fingertips as he passes him, disappearing into the bathroom.    

Sherlock smiles and crawls across the bed to take the black sketchbook off the night table.  He leafs through it a bit.  He wants to show it to John this evening; he gazes at the studies and tries to imagine how John might view them, seeing as he tries to connect emotionally to art.   _However inane.  How fortunate_. 

The water has shut off and Sherlock tosses the book on the floor; he goes to choose a shirt instead.  _White it is._

Soon the bathroom door flies open and John emerges well scrubbed and mostly dressed, in neutral, tasteful and well-made navy blue trousers and a favourite blue oxford of ( _ours_ ) -- soft, unpretentious and attractive, with seven tempting shell buttons down the front placket.  There are two tinier ones on each cuff, one of which he is worrying at on his left wrist, now.  “All yours, go on,” John says, smiling lightly. 

 _The balance of probability suggests he is indicating the empty bathroom -- disappointing._ Sherlock stands up from the bed and slips past John, reaching out and pulling open one of his shirt buttons with lissome fingers as he goes by.  “Thank you,” he says, before he closes the bathroom door behind him. 

“Oi,” John growls and Sherlock laughs, just loudly enough for John to hear it. 


	16. Self disclosure

A waitress seats Sherlock and John at their table, at several minutes past six.  “Just wanted to let you know, there may be a bit of a wait because we also have a private birthday party tonight,” she says brightly though somewhat apologetically.

“There’s no hurry,” Sherlock tells the waitress. “And after having had a cast removed from your ankle, you shouldn’t rush about too much.”  She stares, but smiles and winks at him.

John looks up at them curiously.  “No rush, no,” John says.  He rubs his chin.

Sherlock is thoroughly uninterested in dinner and treats it as one of the more evil of conceivable necessities, tonight.  Like John, Sherlock finds the idea of closing the space between them rather absorbing; he doesn’t know what John might want of him.  

“And have you viewed our wine card?” the waitress asks.

“Your Riesling isn’t German....”  Sherlock's eyes flick over the list. 

“No, sir, Austrian.  Nikolaihof, 2009, Steiner Hund.”

“We’ll have it."  Sherlock sighs and looks at his friend.  "I’ve got Austria on the brain.  John?”

“The salmon.”

“Same for me.  Thank you.”

The waitress leaves them.

“Austria on the brain.  And why would that be?” John raises his eyebrows.

“No, no.  The qualities of the Austrian wine.  You’ll see.”

“Okay, I guess I will.”

“John.  We have a bit of time to kill.  Perhaps I’ll show you some of my drawings.  If you’ll oblige me,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, as good a time as any.  Sure.”

“They’re back in our room.”  Sherlock stands.  He grits his teeth, buttons his jacket quickly and turns away.  “Excuse me."

While he is gone, John’s mind unhelpfully pulls up a memory of an argument between Lestrade and Sherlock over evidence, at a crime scene -- Greg has remarked that the male victim’s suit looks expensive and custom cut, and Sherlock explodes:   _What!  Philistine!  I’ll wager anything you like!  Look at it, it’s store bought, unaltered.  A proper tailor cuts trousers according to whether his client dresses to the right or to the left?  Fabric allowances!  Draping!  Honestly, Lestrade!_

“Sir?”

A young waiter approaches the table with a bottle of wine which he opens nimbly; he pours a sample in a glass for John, who takes it and sniffs at it clinically.  Shortly afterward, Sherlock is back, looking slightly calmer, and slides into his chair. 

He sets Jens’ black sketchbook on the tabletop and his eyes pass over the scene, the bottle, and John.  “Thank you,” he nods, as a bit of wine is poured for him, as well.  He tastes it as the waiter stands by expectantly and looks on.  Sherlock glances over at John with a smile playing at his ( _bloody beautiful_ ) lips, one of those slightly manic expressions that John now understands have had nothing to do with being wound up from work, and have everything to do with being with _him_.  John swallows nervously at that thought.   _Amazing._

“Perhaps you would kindly acquaint us with its character,” Sherlock says to the waiter.

“Yes, sir.  2009 is a unique vintage due to an unusually varied growing season and the stony soil of the micro-region, of course,” the waiter replies.

“Hmm,” John nods politely and takes another sip of it into his mouth. 

The waiter continues.  “Note that it has rare acidic and musky tonalities.  But moreover, it has remarkable length on the tongue, with a ripe, full-bodied tang that ends in a rich, opulent explosion on the palate, sir.”

John coughs and sets his glass down.

The waiter finishes pouring the glasses and bows slightly as he leaves the table.

“Have I chosen well?”  Sherlock asks, sipping decorously.    

John stared across at his friend and bites his lip.  “Kill you,” he finally mumbles.

“My thoughts...precisely.”

“To your health,” John says, raising his glass.

“ _À la votre._ ”

John clears his throat.  “So,” he says.  “Those are your....” He gestures at the sketchbook.

“Yes.” Sherlock picks it up. 

“What Alex must have gone through with you I can only imagine,” John says.

“No permanent damage to either side.  But he helped me see some things.” 

“And he did that how?”

“In spite of himself, mostly.  But it was eye-opening.  Concerning my.  Well.  Reticence.  Toward you, we could say.” 

John realises that Sherlock is looking at him a bit too intently, even by his standards.  “All right,” John says.

“Here.”  Sherlock hands over the book and chooses to focus on how John has clasped his fingers around it instead of the fact that he is about to turn it around and open it.  He has half a mind to take it back.  “The first eleven pages are Jens’ drawings.”

John leafs through them with mild interest.  Then he stops and smiles.  “I’d know him anywhere.  The skull.”  John flips over the pages.  “Molars.  A dried rose?  That looks like it was difficult.” 

Sherlock nurses his wine.   He is counting down the pages until John gets past the studies of water in glass.  It is not enjoyable. 

John turns another page.  “Right.  I know this one.  This must be the -- I remember that.  Heart on a plate.” 

 _Yes, an accurate appraisal._ Sherlock is fighting the urge to grab the book and tear it to pieces.   _Self-disclosure.  They hang what they do, in galleries, they attend their own vivisections, stand by, get prodded and measured._

John turns another page, another. “Fingers.  Oh, Jesus.  Dissected -- eyes.  Those are really detailed.  Nice.  Alex must have been terrified of you.  You know, these are good, though.  Not that I’m surprised.”  John reaches for his wineglass and takes a mouthful, swallows it and smiles.  “Glasses of water.  Wow.  Good.  Those -- look like they were hard to do.  Oh, right.  Ha.  Uhm.  Is this -- me?”  he glances up at Sherlock, who is actually squeezing his teeth together very hard.  John turns the page.  “When did you manage -- and when was this?  Oh.  Nice.  Well done.  Ha, wow.  So these are all of me now, aren’t they.” 

Sherlock shrugs.

John looks so pleasantly surprised, even chuffed.  For a moment.  “Oh.  Oh, _fuck_.”  John’s delightfully expressive, open face has iced up and contracted.  Eyes narrow, lips tight, jaw, shoulders, hands, back -- everything has locked.  “That’s.”

And nothing else comes. 

Sherlock is sitting motionless in his seat and his mind is racing.  _Fix this --_

“You -- can't.” John chokes after a moment, as if Sherlock’s thoughts had somehow become audible to him.  “How.  Could you.  Possibly know.”

“I don’t claim to,” Sherlock replies quietly.

“How.”  John’s lips are trembling now.  “You read something.  You researched it.  Me.”

“No.  But I saw you, when you were struggling in your sleep.  It was what I inferred.”

John squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head a bit.  _How dare you make me think of this now.  Fuck._

“From the way you moved, what you said.  And I could have woken you but I chose to observe you instead.” 

“ _Of course._ ”

“Many times.  I might have woken you and comforted you.  But I didn’t.”   _You will let me fix this._ Sherlock continues.  “I didn’t spare the effort.  And in spite of that you are so unfaltering.  Tireless.  Tell me.  What is not to love.   _What_.  For God’s sake, John, I can hardly hold this glass.”

“So put it down.”  John’s voice seems slightly disconnected, his words spoken tonelessly, as if to his own hand, which is still cupped under the spine of the book.  He seems about to clamp it shut.

“Yes.” Sherlock notices that he is gripping the tabletop with his other hand in response to what he is seeing:  John is setting the book down and standing up to go.

“Need some air,” he is muttering.

“No,” Sherlock says in a low voice.

“Some things -- I would like to keep.  To myself.  I don’t want to share _this_.”

 _Hoping is akin to guessing: indefinite, with limitless negative potential.  I will not hope._   _‘Never hope, it’s not worth the effort,’ I know, Mycroft.  Act.  Decide._ “You will _not_ leave the table,” Sherlock says a notch louder.  He feels dizzy.

“Don’t make a bloody scene,”  John hisses. 

Sherlock sniffs and puts his head down.  “You don’t like it because I drew it or because it's accurate,” he asks tonelessly.

 _That needs clarification, does it?_ “Both,” John says flatly.  He is still standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“So it’s close?” Sherlock is asking.

To John, Sherlock’s question is exasperating, and he cannot contain his annoyance.  “Yeah.  You’re too close!” John stabs at the table with his finger.

Sherlock looks at him for a significantly long moment.  "Remarkable, that.  Under the circumstances,” he says finally. 

John exhales loudly at that.   _This is mad.  Stop this._   “Sherlock.  I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it.  It isn’t clear.”

“I want -- this.”  John is now leaning against the edge of the table.  “But.  There are things you’d probably choose not to share.  Just.  Aren’t there.” 

Sherlock’s face springs back to life and his reply is rapid and disconcerted:  “Surely you appreciate the obscurity of that question.  Just now, you wanted to leave the table, because you do not want to share something which I have already depicted here, and which you say I’ve done accurately, such that you don’t even have to make the _effort_ to share it, so how should I see it?  Tell me, because I have to understand you.  How can I ever know what you won’t choose to share!”

John is momentarily silenced by that; it seems like such a laughable question.  At first.  His anger recedes:  it is, in fact, one of the clearest expressions of naiveté he has ever heard.  And not laughable at all.

“Nobody can know that,” John answers, shaking his head.  

Sherlock‘s eyes are flicking over John’s face. 

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” John backpedals.  "But thanks for -- uhm.  It's -- all right, that you didn't wake me.  Up.  Hmm."

Sherlock frowns.  “Take care, John, it may never get any better.  You may choose to stop this.”

“No.  No, never.  Enough, all right?  It shook me up to see it on paper, I didn’t know you knew so much, we’ll let it go.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“There isn’t any answer.  But I’ll try to tell you if it happens.  Do the same for me.  Can we do that?”  

"Sit, John."

John blinks and takes one more look at the drawing as he drops back into his chair.  It is an astonishing and brutal picture, done almost as if from his own perspective.  A man’s hand is covered in blood, contracted, clasped over his shoulder, trying to stop himself from bleeding out.  And that’s more or less -- no, exactly how it had been.  Just before Barrows had found him and had carried him on his back, scuttling on all fours, often dropping down for some minutes, crawling along under his pack and John’s weight, finally dumping the pack, John with his right arm clutching at him, slowly losing consciousness, trying to stay aware in growing darkness under full sun.  He’d had a photograph crushed in his hand and had tried to focus on it, first to stay awake, and later, when it had looked like nobody would come, to keep from dying alone, but it had got covered in blood; everything had begun growing darker no matter how he’d tried to hold it in the sun to see it; he’d decided he’d died, on his own, after all.   _True.  It’s bollocks to say I can’t share things he already knows about.  Drawing lines in the sand already._ John turns the page.  It is completely gray.  In the centre he sees a figure, probably himself, a grain of a man, arm raised, bent slightly at the elbow, his other hand to his ear, shaded so that its edges are hazy.  A field of vision.  Blurred.  John closes the book and for several moments his eyes are blazing and moist.   _Barrows, if I hadn’t lived to see this day.  Thank you, thank you._

John coughs and says, “This table is too wide.”

“Don’t move from your spot,” Sherlock replies.

“I won’t,” John says.  “Uhm.  I’m honoured.”  

“Oh?”

“Yeah, that you drew those, of me.  And I would like to look at them again, but another time.”

“So we will.”  Sherlock takes a long sip of wine and thus ends the first glass of Austrian Riesling, nearly unnoticed.   

There is a heady silence.

“Look.  Can you just tell me,” John says, thinking about Alex’s phone call from the airport, “why you chose to draw these things, or maybe why you are drawing things in general?”

“That’s easy,” Sherlock tells him.  “I was sketching out a diagram of a house while I was working on a kidnapping case.  With the missing hallway mirror, remember.  I enjoyed it when I was younger, I thought I wouldn’t mind going back to it. It's useful.  I’d planned to ask Jens about working with one of his draftspeople when we went to his office, but I was in a hurry.  Then I met Alex and saw that his skills are outstanding, so I asked him instead, once we had taken care of the lady’s problem with the painting.  The rest you know.  Now.”  He notes he is rambling a bit (it is the wine, perhaps); John is watching him intently though something flickers in his eyes at the mention of the artist’s name.  Sherlock continues.  “It has never been obvious to me how an artist leaves keys in the details that he chooses to put in his drawings, while still achieving a high degree of technical accuracy.  Jens has sometimes pointed out those keys.  Well.  On reflection I might have chosen my subjects far better.  Alex didn’t care for the organs and fingers much, that should have been an indication.  Then again, he’s -- different.”

“Hmm.” John makes a skeptical sound in his throat; he is furrowing his eyebrows slightly. 

 _Beautiful, surprisingly possessive John._ Sherlock considers John’s anger in front of the Yard.   _Correlational data cannot conclusively prove causality -- there was nothing to speak of, yet --_

Sherlock shrugs a bit.  “I sent him to Austria.” 

“Nice thing to do, actually,” John tells him.

“It was your idea.” 

“Sending your drawing teacher away?” John smirks.  “Best idea I’ve had in ages.  Didn’t even know you had one until very recently, because someone chose not to share anything of what he was doing, which it turns out is some remarkable work.”

“Thank you.”  Sherlock is pleased to hear that, too pleased for it to be altogether convenient.  He recovers quickly enough to respond,  “You pointed out that people with talent waste it on menial work.  No truer diagnosis under the sun for what ails Alex. London was killing him by pieces.  So, there was no other solution but to send him abroad, posthaste.” 

“That was good.  Kind.” 

Another compliment from John and Sherlock’s heart might burst in his chest.  “I enjoy a happy ending as much as the next person,” he says.

“Do you, then?” John licks his lips. 

 _John wants me dead before we even begin --_  "Yes," Sherlock replies.

“Right,” John says, reaching for his wineglass to finish it off.  “What kind of happy ending.”

Sherlock’s eyes glitter for a second.  “One with no undue delay.”  

“Exactly.  Where is our food?”  John sighs.


	17. Leave it

There is no sign of salmon as far as the eye can see -- which in all fairness isn’t too dramatic a state, given the cosiness of the small dining area John and Sherlock are sitting in.  The birthday party in the greater room has become increasingly ebullient; John can see that Sherlock has long since counted the number of people around the table and deduced their ages, occupations, the states of their respective marriages, shoe sizes and food allergies.  Judging by the grimace on his face when one starts singing _squashed tomatoes and stew, bread and butter in the gutter, Happy Birthday to you_ , at the top of her ( _elderly?_ ) lungs, he will soon move on to far darker fantasies.

John smiles to himself.  He is still thinking about all of the effort Sherlock has put into learning to draw him, and while he is self-conscious, he is also touched by it.  Something crosses his mind.  After several longish moments, he asks: “Just out of curiosity, Sherlock, why are there so many drawings of my hands?”

“Ah.”  Sherlock sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers.  “Well, I was supposed to choose a defining feature of yours to work with, to observe visceral aspects of your appearance.”

“And you chose my hands.”

Sherlock shrugs.  “I haven’t seen your entire body.  Which limited my choices considerably.”

“True enough.” John grins.  A sign that he is coming back to form.

Sherlock lowers his voice and leans forward a bit.  “Your hands are expressive,” he says meaningfully.  “Mannish, far more so than mine.  Life-restoring, but also life-taking.  Sensual.” 

“Hah.”  John’s ears are going pink again.  “Sensual.  Start with those drawings Alex did of you.   _Those_.” 

“Interesting.  Jens said you might think so and I didn’t believe him.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“But naturally I gave them to you.”

"Did he ever draw you again?”

“I doubt it.”

“You told Alex that your lips belonged to someone.  To you, I mean, I assume you were joking.  But he saw -- how -- your -- uhm --” 

Sherlock stares.   _Oh._ “You assumed wrongly.  But there is another feature of interest here. This dinner is no accident.”  Sherlock says, looking casually around the room.

“No.  I would like to keep you well, but, yeah --”

“What.” 

“Sometimes watching you eat is a reward, for my efforts.  Making you eat.”

“There are better rewards.”  Sherlock smiles as John shakes his head.  “Suffering?  And whose idea was ‘a nice dinner’?  Nothing I’d have dreamed up,” Sherlock remarks.

“I repent,” John sighs.  "Fully."

“Behold, we count them happy which endure,” Sherlock says as the waitress arrives with their plates.  “Thank you,” he says to her. 

“Thank you,” John says, more to the universe than to the lady.

Sherlock picks up his cutlery.  “John.  Enjoy your mercifully undersized portion of salmon.  But we will have another glass or two of wine afterwards, I insist.  It’s at its prime.”

“One more, maybe, to take the edge off.”

“Don’t count on that, not the kind.”  Sherlock looks at John over his glass.  

They eat in silence, neither of them hurriedly.  John is watching his friend’s public school decorum and precision in cutting and eating his food, piece by piece.   _Nothing affected, though._   _Posh and surgical._ _His need to have control over what he’s doing,_ John decides, and laughs inwardly.   _Go on._

***

Dishes have been removed, a third glass of Austrian Riesling discreetly poured, and the silence of the meal has continued, becoming nearly meditative. 

It is finally broken by Sherlock.

“What kept you from me?”

“Married to your work?” 

“A smokescreen.”

“I didn’t imagine -- you'd.” John answers.

“Cautious.”

“Your rejection would’ve.  Hurt.”

“I know.  Now,” Sherlock answers.

John holds his eyes.  “Now would be perfect,” he says.

Sherlock sits back and studies John for a moment.

“Now would be perfect,” John says again.

Sherlock reaches for his glass. 

“Leave it,” John tells him.    


	18. Act accordingly

Sherlock is seated on the pale blue settee at the foot of John’s and his bed.  He is trying to reason away the slight tremour in his fingertips as he carefully unties his shoes and slips them off, setting them aside.  

In the corner of his eye, John watches how his friend removes his socks, jacket and watch with several deliberate movements that speak either of ritual or intense concentration.  John slips out of his jacket and hangs it in the wardrobe.  Sherlock is about to rise and bring his own; John takes it from him and turns to put it away -- among the most ordinary things he has done all day, but as he goes to close the wardrobe door, he is thinking of nothing else than --  ( _impossible to put it fully into words, the simple fact_ ) he is about to turn and approach his dearest friend as a lover.  What he has been hiding most carefully for years can be expressed without the fear that he might not be loved, in return.  A beautiful thing, but a terrifying one.  He has to begin somewhere, and find his place in this shift of things.  He takes a deep breath and turns around.

He finds that Sherlock is watching him carefully from his seat.  He is waiting for a cue in John’s face or a signal, something recognisable as an invitation, and he is determined he will not miss it, unless it is truly too brief or subtle to be unambiguous, in which case he will wait.  In that concentration on Sherlock’s face John doesn’t see indecision, so he comes closer and holds out his hand.  Sherlock stands to take it.  At such a clear gesture from John his concentration cracks; his mind begins racing with disconnected thoughts:  the waves and wind, _when and where_ from John, the children and their impulsive laughter, the terns, his heart humming with despair and joy, tidings from Austria, an excellent vintage.  John sighing with desire, across the table, the sound of his breath when he laughs through an open smile.  The stuttering double clink of his own wine glass against the tabletop as his hands shake with the need to make John see him.  The room key, its cold form in his fingers, the seven pins that bob one by one within the lock shaft as it gives and turns aside.  His shoelaces hissing against leather.  The sound of the wardrobe hinge reverberating through mahogany, his own breath catching at the weight of John’s stare on his body.  Now.  His pulse in his throat.  He is trying to compose himself under its rhythm. 

John closes Sherlock’s fingers in his own and puts his hand on his waist.  “Let me,” John says.

“Irrevocable,” Sherlock answers.   

“Good.  Come here.”  John closes a hand around the back of Sherlock’s head and pulls him into a kiss.  His lips are gentle as they close over Sherlock’s, exploratory, almost protective.  His hand, however, is impatient and possessive; it betrays him; he digs his fingertips into the base of Sherlock’s skull.  The contrast in contact is electrifying.  Sherlock has the sensation of receding into those fingers, everything in him wanting to follow that touch, even while John’s lips and tongue, which are slowly brushing and licking him, engaging him, seem to be pulling him forward.  The plasticity of John’s mouth is breathtaking to Sherlock, yet his kisses still haven’t matched the insistence in his fingers.  He is cautious.  His hunger, however, soon overtakes the first tentative movements of his tongue as he presses in more deeply.  “Open your mouth,” John murmurs, pushing Sherlock’s lips apart gently with his thumb, probing lightly with his tongue.  Sherlock grasps John by the nape, returning his kisses, stroking John’s tongue deeply with his, exhaling and sighing against his lips, clearly intoxicated with the feeling and taste of John’s mouth.  John grips Sherlock’s shoulder tightly.  He runs his tongue over Sherlock’s lips, tasting him, inviting Sherlock to do the same.   

Gradually, their lips grow wet and painful from teeth, tongue, crushing energy, and want. 

John can hardly control the violence of his feelings; something in him wants to tear Sherlock to pieces; it has to be hurting him -- he has never held onto anyone with so much urgency in his life.  He breaks away to catch his breath and looks down at Sherlock’s collar and the pale curve of his neck as it disappears down into the white fabric of his shirt.  He wants into it, to chase his fascination further, and explore.  He kisses Sherlock again and slips a thumb lightly into the neckline of the shirt, tugging it toward him until a button slides against his fingers.  He flicks it open and begins pushing Sherlock toward their bed.

Sherlock closes a hand over his and shakes his head, smiling a bit, pulling John down so that they are sitting next to each other on the bed.  He shifts his body so that he is kneeling next to John, and starts pulling at his buttons while slowly kissing his neck.  John closes his eyes.  He seems yielding.  It looks fantastic, Sherlock decides, taking in the warmth of John’s skin through the fabric as he works at several buttons, imagining that in a moment he will finally open both cuffs and free his hands, kiss his wrists and chest, pull off the shirt, kiss his shoulders, and neck, move on to unbuttoning his trousers, touch him, offer his tongue again, lick and bite his lips.  So many times he has imagined John’s buttons giving way under his fingers, his skin (always hidden) a compelling mystery to him.  But first the shirt:  he reminds himself to focus.  Sherlock takes John’s right hand and works open the tiny cuff buttons above it.  Then he sees:  John is breathing quietly, through his nose.  But his teeth are set.  Sherlock kisses the exposed skin on John’s wrist, then unbuttons the left cuff and runs his lips over John’s palm.   _Averted eyes so that he seems to withdraw...._ Sherlock looks again.  John’s eyes are still closed; a light sweat has broken over his brows.  Something in this is wrong to John; he doesn’t want to ask; instead he leans over John to kiss his tightly closed mouth.  John isn’t expecting contact on his lips and starts at it.  Then he sighs as their tongues touch and mingle again; they kiss sweetly, then not so sweetly.  John is reviving -- he puts an arm around Sherlock and pulls him against his chest.  With his free hand, he scrapes over Sherlock’s shoulders with his nails; if it weren’t for the fabric it would certainly mark him.  Sherlock finds that he wants to own each of those fingers, command them, and guide them over his entire body.  But he sees he won’t have a chance.  John is running his thumb deliberately down the artery in his neck now, as if relishing its rapid pulse; he speaks in a low voice, into Sherlock’s ear, his lips and tongue warm and humid.  “So hot.” 

Sherlock inhales sharply at that. 

“Can I carry on?” John asks, his knuckles trailing over Sherlock’s nipples.  The contrast that is John, again. 

“Mm.” Sherlock feels a single finger sketching a path back to those shirt buttons.  John’s potent grip from behind on his back distracts him completely; buttons opened, John pulls off Sherlock’s shirt and shrugs his own from himself in a beautifully fluid movement.  Sherlock gazes at his friend.   Perfection -- to him, because there is nothing more brilliant than what he has here, in front of him, the object of the most profound feelings he has ever had, for anyone or anything in his life.  He runs his long fingers over John’s neck and shoulders.  Damaged.  Fascinating.  For now he won’t manage to say what he is thinking; to feel so much of John’s warmth against his skin is nearly more than he can bear.  He wants John to take off their trousers but finds himself unable to ask; John is licking Sherlock’s lip gently as he pushes him down flat on his back; he finds himself under much of John’s weight and the heat of him is leading to the near desertion of his senses.  He wraps his hands around John’s face and draws his kisses deeper against his tongue and sucks his lips. John reluctantly moves his face away and runs his fingers down Sherlock’s arm, his tongue probing his friend’s throat and chest.  He steals a touch along his waist and brushes Sherlock’s cock with his wrist; he is painfully hard and the touch makes him flinch.  John scratches light patterns over Sherlock’s stomach until he hears his friend groan in his throat.  John smiles and brings his lips and tongue back to that supple mouth that has driven him so mad with curiosity for years; he finds he cannot savour it enough now.  He adores kissing it.  He is quickly losing his reason over it.   _Worth losing every ounce of reason_ , he thinks, _for this mad, gorgeous creature_.  His fingers are still teasing along Sherlock’s stomach. 

Sherlock seems stunned; he is so focused on John’s kisses and fingers that when John takes his wrists in his dominant hand and pins them over his head, he realises that he has hardly been mindful of his own limbs.  John seems to have seen this but is soon gazing deep into his eyes with incredible emotion and determination (a bit of violence or violence of feeling) in his face.  Before Sherlock is able to think about it any more, John’s other hand clamps over Sherlock’s left hip, holding it still; he slowly rubs his own erection against Sherlock’s and Sherlock sighs in his throat under the friction -- both too much and too little through their clothes; he cannot catch his breath or think coherently enough to determine which.  He does not like being pinned down at all; the tension in John’s grip is like a vise, and Sherlock cannot respond with his own movements.  As soon as John lets go of his wrists he digs his nails into his back and bites at his lower lip, a bit of a protest -- as if he were of any mind to object much, but he makes an attempt.  John has been trying to hold his gaze, to show him everything he is feeling.  Because of that, and his expressive face, the pleasure of what John is doing is devastating and amazing all at once; when he tries to focus on what is actually happening (John, grinding into him, rocking his hips in what Sherlock finds an impossibly erotic rhythm, looking for more and more friction, sporadically licking and biting at Sherlock’s lips, running his fingertips over his chest and shoulders); he finds he cannot look anymore and his eyes fall shut; he is breathing raggedly in his throat and cannot control it. 

Suddenly John hisses, “Jesus, Sherlock.  You’re so hot -- can’t.  Let’s just do it.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open.  “Take them off,” he says.  At least he has found his voice -- enough to speak of the imperatives his body is demanding of John’s fingers; his thoughts have narrowed to the warmth, wetness and abrasion between them; it is beginning to hurt.  He pulls at the buttons of John’s trousers; John tugs them down; Sherlock is finally able to move freely and he turns slightly to the side and reaches for John.  John’s pants are soaked and hot inside and he groans at the slightest contact of Sherlock’s fingers.  “I need it.”  John’s voice is rough now.  He takes Sherlock’s hand.  “Touch me.” 

Sherlock closes his hand tightly around John’s cock.  A pulsing ache radiates through John’s stomach and thighs as he feels the first few slow strokes of those elegant fingers on him.  “Oh God, more, like that, that.” He reaches for Sherlock’s trouser buttons.  “Let me feel yours.”

Sherlock can hardly breathe as he kisses John and helps him pull open his flies with his free hand.  “I’m nearly done -- can’t.”

“So am I,” John growls into his mouth and pushes his hand into Sherlock’s pants.  “Let’s get off.  And start over.”

Sherlock answers with a muffled moan against John’s lips, breath and heat all mixing in with the sensation of John’s strong fingers working over the length of his cock.   _Like.  That.  Like -- that, like -- that_ \-- _John, can’t -- stop this -- can’t -- can’t -- perfect.  Perfect.... Mine -- mine, impossible.  Impossible. Mine...._  

It is over quickly. 

Just after Sherlock, John comes under the pliant and controlled touch of his lover’s fingers; his entire body curls in the pleasure of it as he buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder and exhales once more heavily; he is panting and trying to calm it by drawing some breaths through his nose.  Finally he sniffs a small laugh.  Neither of them cares to move.  John has enough presence of mind to reach out and take his shirt from the edge of the bed and give it to Sherlock, who reluctantly uses it to clean his hands.  John tosses the shirt away and wraps his arms around him.  “Brilliant,” he says, still unable to speak coherently, “at everything.”

“So are you,” Sherlock says, a bit in spite of himself, though he means it.  “Excuse me,” he adds, slipping out of John’s arms and kicking off the rest of his clothes.

“Of course, go on,” John says.

Sherlock locks himself in the bathroom and approaches the sink.  _Inevitable:  messy and chaotic, the body gave in._   He stares at himself in the mirror.  There are red finger marks across his entire left shoulder and on his wrists, particularly his right.   _I have chosen my behaviours, both those conforming and deviant, for pleasure._   His lips are swollen and sensitive from the stubble on John’s face and from being bitten, by John (from his own teeth as well, near the end, trying to silence himself).  ‘ _Intense, long, certain, speedy, fruitful, pure; such marks in pleasures and in pains endure’._ His tongue aches in his mouth.  ‘ _Such pleasures seek if private be thy end, if it be public, wide let them extend’._ His hip is also bruised with finger marks, smarting; his skin burns in several places where his trousers have chafed his thighs.  ‘ _Such pains avoid, whichever be thy view:  if pains must come, let them extend to few’.  True.  So true._ He runs a bit of hot water and dips his fingertips into the stream as it warms; he begins scrubbing at his hands.  They are trembling again.  _Alarmed me after all?_   He stretches his wet fingers and stares down at them.  Sherlock bends down to wash his face and rubs at his lips with his thumb. _Get off and start over, as you said.  Start over.  Mmmm.  Most photogenic in England, mine._ He pushes his hair off his forehead and blinks through the water that is clinging to his eyelashes.  Then all at once it comes to him: _A black spaniel, in Hunstanton, in the photograph; a man with daughters and a dog -- going to look for John.  Greetings and salutations from scenic Norfolk, brother dear._

He climbs into the bathtub and turns on the tap irritably, unintentionally blasting himself with very cold water. 

John is still in bed when he comes out so he slides in under the duvet with him to get warm.  John puts an arm around Sherlock’s back and kisses his damp hair and forehead several times before climbing over him and escaping into the bath, disappointingly quickly.  He hasn’t said anything else.  Sherlock is getting lightheaded.  He rubs his palms against his closed eyes and curls up in the warm place John has just left behind.

John gets into the bathtub and his mind continues the incantation he’d been reciting in bed moments before:  _That was insanely hot.  Oh my God, that was just.  That was fucking amazing.  I love him._

***

When John crawls back into bed next to Sherlock he hears, “You don’t fancy being undressed by someone else.”

“No, I really don’t,” John admits, and wraps his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mmm.  You’ll undress us.”

“Sounds highly doable,”  John smiles against Sherlock’s neck.  Then he gets more serious.  “Maybe there’s something you don’t like.”

“When it’s over.”

“Sorry, can’t promise to change that.”

“And talking about why we didn’t do this before.”

“Okay,”  John answers, and smiles.  “You always know what I want to say.”

Sherlock says, “John, I would --”   _Vulgar.  No._

“Mmmm?” John continues with kisses, licks and tiny bites.

Sherlock huffs and looks away.

“What.”

“Puts me off.”

“Me?  This?” John pulls back.

“ _No_.”

“What.”

Sherlock curls up against John and puts his arms around him.   _So much skin, warmth.  Dizzy.  His heart is pounding, he blames himself for nonexistent flaws.  Petting my head, choosing to be gentle, thinks he is capable of being offputting to me --_

“I want to reward you for your efforts,” Sherlock says finally, “and I am trying to choose the best method.”  _What a ridiculous thing to say._

_Or maybe not?_

John is looking at Sherlock with a warm _yes_ in his eyes; in fact, his entire face has lit up.  “Really?  Well, you put it best, ‘choose and act accordingly'.” 

_Interesting...._


	19. Badly

John wakes up against Sherlock’s back, and finds that he has been pushed nearly to the edge of the bed; one of the first things that passes through his head is _sea snakes_.  He kisses the pale shoulder in front of him ( _bruised you, so sorry_ ) and runs a hand down the bent line of waist, stealing a touch over Sherlock’s arse, which seems to be enough to rouse him from a deep sleep. 

“Mmm.  John,” he mumbles. 

John kisses that shoulder again in reply.  He pulls himself up on one elbow and takes his phone off the nightstand.  _Nine fifteen, eleven emails, three texts._   He rubs his face and yawns.  Breakfast sounds excellent.  He gets up and stretches.  He looks back at Sherlock and sighs loudly in his throat.  Even continental breakfast, he thinks, is going to look amazing if it is spread out in front of him, a delight (if he can get him to wake up before eleven).  Once he has got scrubbed and dressed, he sits down at the writing desk, which he is starting to be rather fond of, and scrolls through his emails.  Several seem to need more attention and proper replies.  He pads over to the bed and crawls onto Sherlock.  “I’m wanting to go for breakfast soon, come with me?” he says in his ear.

“Mmm.”  Sherlock rolls over and to John’s surprise, wraps an arm around him. “Want me to?”

“Yeah.”

“In twenty.  Start without me.”

“All right.”  John takes his phone and coat and slips out of the room and crosses the lush, manicured green to the hotel.  He enters the main dining room.  The aftermath of the previous night’s birthday party is visible in the pale faces of some of the guests nearby.  He, on the other hand, has delicious thoughts rolling through his head as he takes a plate and chooses some cold cuts, cheeses, tomatoes and bread from the breakfast table.  There is a free spot in front of a window near a showy fireplace surrounded by bookcases, and he settles into an over sized armchair there.  The waitress with a weak ankle (according to Sherlock, it looks just fine to him) approaches him with a kind smile and asks what he would like to drink, returning in several minutes with a small, steaming pot of tea and a shell-like porcelain teacup.  Once John has put together a few open-faced sandwiches, he pulls out his phone and goes through the emails again.  One in particular interests him -- an invitation from one of his medical colleagues to Ascot, for a private show at one of the stables in the area followed by an afternoon tea and a bit of mingling.   _The coming Saturday.  Tuesday to Thursday shifts at the clinic and one at the hospital on Friday.  Definitely doable._   He writes back in the affirmative, and just after sending it, the thought occurs to him that he might have asked about bringing Sherlock; he considers.  No.  He will use the occasion to pay a long-overdue visit to a friend on the way back from Ascot, and he will do that alone. 

He hears Sherlock’s voice in the other room and his body responds with a stab of adrenaline and want.  He blinks down at his phone screen.  From the sound of it, Sherlock is speaking to the waitress.  “Whichever, if it is raw, mono-floral and local, your favourite for starters,” he is saying.  “In there?  Thanks, Alison.” 

He walks into the room ( _from nearly comatose to that in twenty minutes)_  and sweeps his eyes over the other diners, their plates and the states of their tables, and then smiles straight at John.  “Good morning,” he says.  John’s heart is already racing. 

Soon the waitress brings a cup of espresso and a small glass pot with a slotted wooden honey dipper suspended in it and sets them in front of Sherlock.  “It’s unpasteurised, heather,” she says, “but sir, less than half-full, sorry.  I can bring in a pine-based honeydew this afternoon from my auntie’s, if you like, and leave it with reception.”

“Excellent,” he says.   

“Is there anything else I can bring for you from our breakfast table, Mr. Holmes?” she asks, “Or for you, doctor?” she asks John.  John shakes his head.

“Oh no, I think I’ll just have something of his,” Sherlock says, reaching for one of John’s sandwiches and smiling up at her just before he sinks his teeth into it.  “Sorry,” he adds to John, sweetly, clearly for her benefit.

“I like having you eating off my plate,” John says, and smirks to himself as he taps away at another email.  Sherlock stops chewing for a second and looks at him carefully. 

In all, John loses two and a half of his sandwiches to Sherlock, who soon asks for a teacup and pours himself some of John’s tea.  He studies the glass honey pot with interest, and pulls the dipper out several times, perhaps assessing something about the viscosity of the honey as it drops, folding and pooling lazily into itself.  “Alison’s family are local beekeepers,” he remarks.

“Are they.  And you knew that how?”

“By the way she looked at the watery borage on the buffet table while one of the guests was sweetening oatmeal.  Repulsive.”  Sherlock is looking at John a bit restlessly.  “Anything interesting?”

“Yeah, catching up on some emails.  Do you mind?”

“Not at all.  I have ninety-two, thirty-four of which actually require an answer and eight of which are quite urgent.  Mmm.”  Sherlock is sniffing at the honey now.  “Like some in your tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“A local treasure.  You don’t know what you’re missing.  Mmmm.” 

 _Trouble brewing in that last bit_ , thinks John, and he sets his teeth, glancing over at two nearby tables of hung-over breakfasters.   _He wouldn’t dare._   “Nah, no thanks.” John takes his last surviving sandwich and bites into it.

Sherlock takes the dipper and drizzles honey slowly into his teacup.  Then he puts out two long, pale fingers and covers them in honey.  John’s ears go pink, and though he has already determined he will not watch, he cannot stop himself.  “Divine,” Sherlock is saying, licking at them and sucking them in turn, _with almost as much tongue work as he_ \-- _oh God_.

“ _Kill you_ ,” John growls.

“You won’t.”

“People can hear you.”

“And maybe they’ll want us to leave.”

“Sherlock....”

“Finish that email, already!” 

John smiles at his screen.  “Just confirmed with a friend, I’m going to Ascot next weekend.”

“Oh.”

“Horse show.”

“Mmm.  You said something about leading me into a forest, and if I’m to believe the barometer just behind you on the wall, it will start raining in two hours,” Sherlock says, impatiently.

“I need a few more minutes.  Answer something.”

Sherlock sighs and pulls out his phone.  He starts opening texts, and tapping out replies in rapid fire.  “Oh,” he says at one point.  “I nearly forgot.  Alex sent his greetings to you yesterday.”

“Very...kind,” John says absently.

“Yes.  And keeps my Latin sharp,” Sherlock remarks and watches something in John's jaw clamp.

***

John and Sherlock enjoy their walk through the pines; Sherlock talks about pine honey and John about horses, until they are indeed caught in a light but unpleasantly cold rain.  They turn back much sooner than they’d planned.  John feels a bit let down because it is their last afternoon, though he has already resolved they will come back to this charming, scenic place another time when Sherlock is more energetic. As it is, he is dizzy and tired again when they come back to their room so John sends him to have a warm bath.  He stretches out on the bed with his Bond book and finishes a chapter before he hears a gentle knock on their door.  He goes to answer it; it is a young man from the hotel.

“Dry cleaning for Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” he says politely, and gives John several hangers of clothes, which he quickly recognises as the same ones he and Sherlock had been mistreating the night before. 

“Thanks,” he says, slack-jawed, and slams the door.  He hears a black chuckle from the bathroom. 

He crosses the room and yanks opens the door, peering in at Sherlock with a mixture of horror and admiration on his face.  “He owed me,” Sherlock says to him.  “So when will you join me, John?”


	20. Too many variables

John smiles down at Sherlock and starts unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off and tossing it on the floor by the bathtub. “Join you?” he asks.  Sherlock’s eyes are already getting dark and glittery and he sinks further down into the water.  John holds his gaze and strips off to his pants, kicking his jeans off.  “Nnnnnope,” he smiles, and scoops up the clothes, “you’ll join me.” 

He leaves the bathroom, and Sherlock submerges his head and growls something underwater.  John laughs aloud, with the sincere hope that their fellow lodgers from the annex are all out somewhere sightseeing in the rain; he climbs back onto the bed in his underpants, and picks up his novel.

_Tatiana sensed danger.  She stiffened like an animal who sees the steel jaws beneath the meat._ _Yup._

The steel jaws do not appear as soon as John had anticipated.  When Sherlock does come out from the bath he is wrapped tightly in his dressing gown.  He goes and plucks his phone off the night table and dials Lestrade.  At the sound of Lestrade’s voice, he begins pacing along the foot of the bed.

“Yeah, it’s me.  It could only have been injected into muscle tissue.  Contortion, a grimace.  Died in agony, then.  Haven’t you found -- a puncture -- obviously!  No.  There has to be, _find_ it.  You said no marks on the neck, no obstruction.  Signs of -- yes.  So remind her to keep her eyes open when she looks, for God’s sake.  Find out if anyone -- medical -- yes, and the golfing colleagues.  _All_ of them, particularly any with easy access to prescription drugs.  Spouses, too.  Tomorrow.  No.  Tomorrow afternoon.  No.”  He rolls his eyes at the ceiling and rings off.

“Missing you,” John says.

“Nnngh.”  Sherlock is rubbing his forehead. 

“What?  You all right?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the wall.  “The Skin Hunters.”

“So -- coming --?” John is asking.

Sherlock is already back on the phone.  “Pavulon,” he says to Lestrade.  “Run a check for Pavulon.  No.  Or another muscle relaxant powerful enough to arrest the cardiovascular system and bring on suffocation.  A potent analgesic.  Check it!  Obviously!  In the more recent annals of continental crime it very well has, do your research!  Yes.  Yes.  No.  No!  I’m -- occupied.  No.  Tomorrow afternoon, I told you.  Good.”  He rings off again and lies down near John.

“Pavulon?  Nasty.”

"Well, a long shot, we’ll see.  Not enough data.”  Sherlock presses at his eyes and squeezes his teeth together.  He has come to believe that John has been witholding his affection from him all day for a particular reason but is not able to go any further in analysing why.  It is unexpectedly painful to him.  He is about to go and start answering all of his texts; however, he would much rather enjoy a last rainy afternoon in Norfolk in bed with John before facing an onslaught of such mind-numbing tasks.  He cannot think. 

John runs a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder but doesn’t get any response.  “Cross that I didn’t jump in?  Hey, now.”  He puts his book aside on the night table and slides down next to Sherlock and brushes his face lightly with the back of his hand.  Sherlock closes his eyes and seems to recede.  It reminds John of when he’d come to the flat to see him while he was ill with migraine.  He wonders if Sherlock is trying to block out a pained reaction to his touches now.   _Why would he?_   John thinks back quickly to the morning, to breakfast, to their walk, the rain, returning to the room, the bath.   _Oh my God._ He can almost hear Sherlock stating it with more than a shade of impatience:   _Can’t you see, it is what was not done that matters --_  

It is well past two in the afternoon, and he hasn’t as much as kissed him fleetingly on the mouth or touched his hand; this, after such an incredible connection, and so much intimacy _\-- looked so hot at breakfast that I had to block it for the sake of public decency, Christ.  What you did last night.  So good.  Can hardly think of it without wanting to explode.  Eating off my plate -- only a joke, eat off my plate, whenever.  Jesus.  So many families, then people on the path in the forest, and I couldn’t do it.  I might have, but this is ours, not theirs.  No.  That’s it right there, being two-faced.  Locking it away behind closed doors, shuttering what matters most, like it isn’t happening.  If I want to break him, I will show him some more bloody cowardice.  Idiot.  Starved him, of all people.  What the fuck am I doing._

He puts an arm around Sherlock and pulls him closer.  “I know it’s late,” he says, “but good morning.”  Sherlock rests his head against John’s bare chest.  John kisses his damp hair.  “Can we make up for a few lost hours?”

“How do you propose to do that?” he hears.

“You’ll have to do the maths for us.  Tell me how much I might have kissed you.”

“Too many variables,” Sherlock answers.  He shifts his back so that he can look at John’s face. 

“But a lot?”  John sees that he is being studied closely.  

“Yes.”

“That much I know,” John says, and smiles.  In a moment, Sherlock smiles back.

John reaches for him and brushes his lips lightly over Sherlock’s.  And decides: _if anyone gets bruised this time, it will be me_.  Sherlock dislikes the notion of _relief_ , which he often pairs with _hope_ as a certain type of irrational failure, to be given a wide berth wherever possible.  But under the light pressure of John’s lips and his certain touch, it no longer matters.  He feels it.   _If losing one’s senses (my senses), then only to him -- he knows what to do, with feelings.  Even those of a monster._

“What you did last night,” John breathes into his ear very softly. “Let me, for you.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes.

_Lips thin and wet -- tongue warm, brilliant.  The same world, just gone unreasonably bright around the edges, even with the eyes shut, the edges gone bright._

_Ecstasy has an expression._


	21. My ideal time

John is propped against a pillow with his book in one hand and is raking at Sherlock’s hair with the other.  Sherlock is nearly asleep, curled up in his lap.  When John hears a knock on the door he really can’t be arsed to see who it is.

“Mmm.  Alison,” he hears from Sherlock.

John crawls off the bed, grabbing his jeans and shirt off the floor as he goes.  He pulls them on and has a quick growl about it.  When he opens the door it is indeed the waitress, with a smallish steel cart.  “High tea, sir,” she says, and parks it to the side of the doorframe.

“Ah, thank you,” John says, “thanks, I’ll get it, I’ll take it.”

“Cold supper at eight thirty,” she says.

“Ah, yeah,” he says.  “Thank you.  Thank you.”

She nods and leaves him.

John is pleased.  He brings a tray into the room which is covered in cups, steaming pekoe, and golden-tipped scones with cranberries, clotted cream and wild rosehip jam.  There is also a small ceramic jar with a decorative fabric cover, most likely the pine honeydew Sherlock had been promised that morning; it is the only homey-looking object in the elegant service.  He sets everything out on top of the writing desk and decides he is going to miss this place terribly, come tomorrow.  “Thank you, this looks great,” he says.

“Tea for me,” Sherlock says, “with the honey, if you don’t mind.”

John opens the ceramic jar and sniffs at it.  “Like someone’s filthy wool jumper?”

“Food of the gods, John,” Sherlock sighs.

“Since when are you a honey enthusiast?  You’re usually willing to settle for half the sugar bowl in your tea.”

“Find proper honey in London.  Nearly as scarce as a well-written police report.”

John smiles, pouring out tea for them and over-sweetening one for Sherlock.  The honey dissolves very slowly and swirls in tiny crystals in the cup.  John hands it over gingerly.  Sherlock enjoys the slightly alarmed look that John has on his face when he is carrying a hot beverage, particularly in contrast to the nonchalant rapport he enjoys with his own gun.  “Thank you,” he says to John, and savours the musky smell of the honey, which is tickling his nose as it drifts up from the cup and saucer in his hand. 

John is slicing scones and spreading condiments on them at the desk.  “This is very good,” he says, licking at something ( _likes rose jam, interesting_ ) on his finger.  “A nice idea.  So we won’t be going over for supper, either?”

“No.  Someone might sing.”

John bites into a scone and chews thoughtfully.  Sherlock is sipping at his tea and thinking about John’s warm, soft tongue.  He cannot keep his eyes open at the thought of the pleasure that had torn through his entire body, so intensely, not so long before. 

John sets the remains of his scone on a plate and picks up his cup.  “I hope we’ll come back.  To this place.”

“Mmm.” 

“Uhm.  You know, I was going to look at your drawings again, can we look at them?” John asks suddenly.

Sherlock opens his eyes.  “Mmm?”

John nods.  Sherlock studies John for another moment and puts his tea aside. He stands up from the bed, and swishes by in his dressing gown, which John had untied earlier and which is now offering him glimpses of Sherlock’s soft, long cock, and working his mind's eye very sweetly.  While Sherlock is digging the book out of the wardrobe  John takes another large bite of the scone and sighs silently.  When Sherlock turns around and comes back toward John with the black volume in his hand, he sees immediately that John has pink ears.

“What,” he says.

“Nothing.”  John takes a sip of tea. 

“So come, we’ll go through them.” He snatches up his cup again.

John brings his tea to bed and Sherlock opens the book.  He flips through some of the earlier pictures and John tells him to slow down.  “I want to look at all of them.”

“Most of them are rubbish.”

“No, they’re quite good.  I like these eye cross-sections, here.  Ever thought about keeping this in our kitchen and just making a record of all the bits from Bart’s you get?”

Sherlock swallows.  _He said ‘our’ kitchen._ “I could, yes.”

Soon John is flipping through some of Sherlock’s sketches of his hands. Sherlock leans away and sets his teacup aside on the night table.  “That’s really how they look,” John remarks, flexing his fingers and appraising them a bit.

“I’ve studied them carefully.  And they are strong.”

“Sorry for that.” John has in mind the fingermarks he’d left on Sherlock’s skin.  He puts his teacup on his night table as well and pulls his knees up.

He rests the book against his legs and looks carefully at the drawing of his own injury, trying this time to see it from a greater distance inside, then from Sherlock’s perspective, and decides that it is a very nice piece of work, though still deeply disturbing and violent.  He is affected no matter how he views it.  Neither of them say anything.  Sherlock is tense.  When John turns the page to the gray scene from the perspective of the rooftop of Bart’s, he puts an arm around Sherlock and pulls him closer to share a slow, deep kiss.  

An understanding is passing between them:  _Never again._

John accidentally drops the book.  For a long while it goes ignored as he re-explores Sherlock’s lips and tongue, all in pine honey. 

A bit later, John flips the last page to the unfinished drawing of a spiraling flock of birds.  Sherlock curls up against him and puts an arm across his stomach.  John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair with his free hand. 

“Terns,” Sherlock says.

“Beautiful work.  I’d really no idea you could draw.  Though it makes sense, your memory for detail is the most exceptional of anyone I’ve ever known,” John remarks.   Sherlock is beaming inside.  “I like this one best,” John adds, and leafs back a few pages to a drawing of himself, reading.  “I suppose I do look like that.”

“Yes.  Not easy to do without you seeing.”

“You might have told me, I’d have held still.”

“In fact you were completely absorbed in reading ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ that day.”  Sherlock’s fingers are getting restless now that John is so close.  And so warm.

“Fitting, somehow,” John remarks.

“John,”  Sherlock says, slipping his fingertips down John’s waistband a bit.  "I'll want you over.  More."

“Uhm.  You won’t see much of me this coming week, just forewarning you.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock says, running his lips lightly over John’s throat.  John hums and closes his eyes. 

He finally sets the sketchbook aside and they lick at each other's mouths as John unbuttons his trousers and lets Sherlock take them down.

***

John and Sherlock have rather reluctantly chosen a late-morning train from King’s Lynn back to London.  Sherlock is sitting across from John with his head turned away from the pane and looks like he is about to fall asleep.  John has just found a magazine with some puzzle pages; he decides to work some of them out to pass the time.  He stands up and digs around in his bag for a pen. 

“What?” Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Nothing.  Anagrams.” John sits down again and sighs.

“Nnngh.” 

“Help me out?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.  But he does like travel games, even if he would never admit it aloud.

“You have a word, and you use an anagram of it to finish the sentence,” John says, and clicks open his pen. “Ha.  Okay, listen.  ’Her _pertness_ makes men want to give her...’”

“Serpents.”

“ _Presents_ ,” John giggles and fills it in.

“And if you’ve ever wondered what distance travel with Mycroft was like,” Sherlock groans affectedly.

“Okay, some with word association, and you have to answer, but in an anagram.”

“Nnnno.” 

 “Come, now.”  John scans through them.  “ _Heavy rain_.”

“ _Hire a navy_.”

“You know these by heart,” John mutters, frowning.

Sherlock closes his eyes for several seconds.  He opens them and smiles broadly.  “ _The hero's wonky beauty_.”

John shakes his head.  “Why do I always set myself up.  Hmm.  All right.   _My ideal time_.”

“ _Immediately_.”  Sherlock leans forward and runs his fingers lightly in circles over John’s knees. 

John clears his throat.  “Maybe we need to try something else.”

“Yes.  _Fingertips_ ,” Sherlock says.

“Fingertips....”

“Work it out.” Sherlock is running his eyes over him now. 

John shakes his head and writes it down, studies it.  After a few seconds he chuckles.  “If I had a D, I could have _fridge pints_.  Oh.  Got it.  _Finest prig_.”

“Oh no, you’re not priggish at all, but _gripping_ ,” Sherlock says in a low voice.  John stares at the paper and licks his lips.  Sherlock’s fingers are stealing up John’s left thigh.  “You set my entire world on fire, why should it be any different in here.”

John is quite certain he is spoiled for life.  “Any ideas how to turn this train around?” he asks.

“Eight.”  Sherlock slowly leans back in his seat, squirms against it a bit and closes his eyes.  “I’ll choose one, just give me time.” 

After a few minutes a text buzzes in Sherlock’s pocket.  He languidly pulls out his phone and reads it.  His face goes cold.  It is a shocking alteration after the calm of the last three days and it sends a chill across John’s chest.  Sherlock glances out the window and springs up.  “Wait here, I’ll be back shortly.”

“What’s happening?” John rises from his seat.

Sherlock brushes John’s shoulder with his fingers as he leaves.  “Not sure.  Just wait here.”  He stalks out of the compartment, opens the door to the next one forcefully, and recedes, recedes, door after door slamming between them, as he walks in the direction of the end of the train.

John understands one thing for certain.  The concern that has just surged through him is nothing new, but its intensity and depth certainly are.  London will feel like this.  He has to calm it down.  Now.

The train is slowing.  A thought rushes through John’s head that Sherlock has indeed found a way to turn the blasted thing around, and he almost wants to shout something primal and congratulatory.  Then he notices that they are merely pulling into the station at Cambridge.  As the train grinds to a stop, he jumps up and trots to the nearest door and pulls it open, stepping out on the stair to have a look.  At the very end of all the train cars he spots Sherlock, standing on the platform just outside the last compartment door, with passengers pushing past him.  He is speaking to a thin, elderly man dressed in a long raincoat and a soft-looking hunting cap, who hands him a flat parcel wrapped in brown paper and touches the brim of his cap as he steps away from the train.  Sherlock nods politely and jumps back into the car.  John also steps in, goes back to his seat and decides he can relax.  At least to some extent.

Sherlock returns with the parcel under one arm.  He places it on the seat next to John and flops down.  He glares at it for a few seconds.  John decides on a magic square rather than undertaking the puzzle of asking all the right questions.  Suddenly, Sherlock spits, “From the honourable _professor emeritus_ Heinrich Rainer Hundermeier, to Mycroft Holmes, Esquire.”

John claps a hand over his forehead and groans.  Sherlock frowns and closes his eyes again.  After two more station stops in silence, John puts down his puzzle pages and leans forward.  “Sherlock,” he says quietly, when he is sure Sherlock isn’t actually sleeping, “None of this is new.”  Sherlock opens his eyes halfway.  “I say fuck them.  Within reason, of course, but fuck them.”

Sherlock would like to ask how John imagines _fucking within reason_ , but decides he will save that conversation for another day.  For now he tells John, “You’re right.” 

And that is like a balm on John’s heart.

***

_Visit you?  SH_

_No breaks today.  Bring lunch? :)_

_Examine thoroughly @ 12:45.  SH_

John looks at the clock on the wall.  It is 12:28.  By 12:41 his stomach is in knots and he doesn’t even know why.  His 12:30 patient leaves the room and the receptionist knocks on his door.  “Doctor Watson, Mr. Robertson cancelled, he was called away at the last minute, but you’ll see this gentlemen in his time-slot, sorry for the change.“ 

Sherlock slips in the door past him.  He grins and sets a paper bag with soup and noodles on John’s desk. 

“And Mr. Robertson is...” John smiles and shakes his head.

“One of the three hypochondriacs that were in the waiting room and the only one over-stretching his lunch hour for a medical consultation neither of you needs.  He had be sent back to work at once.  So.  Hungry?  Statistics say that a GP in England spends an average of 8 minutes --“ 

John already has his arms around Sherlock.  He presses his lips against his chin and neck.  “Famished.  Thank you.” 

"Come home tonight.” 

John kisses him.  “Can’t.  At the hospital, and on call all night afterward.  Giving back hours.  Really can’t.”

“Saturday.”

“Ascot.  Sunday afternoon when I get back.”

“I think about you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m on my way to Edmonton to study the path of a bullet.”

“Not in motion?”

“Not that one.”  Sherlock kisses John one more time and darts out. 


	22. Affection of concern

Numerous clients have darkened Sherlock’s door (and increasingly, his mood) throughout the week and it seems that Sherlock cannot occupy his mind enough.  By the weekend he is crawling inside. 

 _Breathing stops being tedious with John.  Without John it becomes entirely pointless_.  He catches himself on that.  _Enough.  Think!_

The brown wrapped parcel he’d received in Cambridge is still waiting for Mycroft to call, though Sherlock most certainly is not. 

On Sunday, mid-afternoon, as if on cue (when Sherlock is about to tear the paper open with his bared teeth in a fit of acute boredom, and when he is feeling least disposed to chatting), his brother makes his under-due appearance at Baker Street.  

As per their usual visiting procedure, Mycroft takes a seat in John’s armchair; Sherlock slowly settles opposite him, testily whipping the edge of his dressing gown over one knee; Mycroft smiles and shakes his head. Formalities.

“I don’t have long, Sherlock, alternative energy protesters have taken to the streets of Tbilisi in recent days and Lord knows what that the consequences will be to Norway now.  But you might not have heard?  No, you were weaving a love nest for your soldier and playing doctor and patient at a picturesque seaside getaway.”

“Piss off.”

“Language, brother.  By the way.  If you are going to reserve a room in my name at one of my favourite hotels again, do have the courtesy to let me choose with whom I share it.” 

“How about the father of two with the black spaniel,”  Sherlock suggests, propping his elbows against the arms of his chair and folding his hands.

Mycroft smiles patronisingly.

“Nicely done, that, and the Cambridge special,” Sherlock remarks.  He sighs showily.

“Stop pining, it’s pathetic.”

“I’ve no reason to pine.”

“We might open it,” Mycroft replies, gesturing toward Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock reaches down for the brown-wrapped object, which he has propped against his chair.  He hands it over with a frown.  “Not my lot.”

“On the contrary.”

“Oh?”

“It’s for you.  I preferred not to have it sent by post.  So you hand-carried it yourself.”

“Mmm.  And John shouldn’t see it, because?”

“Do you remember who Professor Hundermeier is?”

“Yes.  Do tell.”

“Among his other illustrious titles it is a little-known fact that he was guardian of two children, Lawrence and Edward Collingwood.”  Sherlock’s face goes slack.  “And just before your handiwork at the symposium came to light,” Mycroft says, a microsecond of disgust appearing around his lips, “I learned that this book existed.  And recently it has seemed more significant that its whereabouts be confirmed, in case, as I suspected, it hadn’t ever been destroyed.”

“What book.”

“A volume of poems and stories by the lovelorn Edward Collingwood, penned in a registry book, found among old property tax records in the honourable professor's library.”

“And this pertains to me, how?”

“Nearly all of them are about you, brother.”

“Ridiculous.  We’ll destroy it, immediately.”

“You don’t care to read it?”

“Care.”  Sherlock stands and goes to the kitchen, rummages around on the cluttered table and returns with a small butane torch and a longish carving knife.  “Open it, remove any correspondence from the professor.”

Mycroft takes the knife from Sherlock and slices open one end of the paper wrapping.

“Is there anything in it?” Sherlock asks.

“It doesn’t appear so.”  Mycroft hands over the book and paper.

Sherlock tears the book fully out of the paper and shakes it by the spine.  When nothing falls from its leaves he flings it onto the fire grate.  Mycroft watches, the slightest tick around his eyes, but Sherlock is priming the torch and it passes unseen.

“Not much has changed in your management of others’ affections,” Mycroft remarks. 

“Depends whether or not those affections are of any concern,”  Sherlock mutters, as he crouches on his knees and flicks a lever on the torch, igniting the book in a long butane flame.  

When he is satisfied that the pages are burning freely he rights himself and sits back in his armchair.  “Thank you,” he tells Mycroft.

“Very welcome.  I did say _not_ _much_ has changed.  But something has.  As messy as it is.”  Mycroft studies his fingernails.  “Oh, and it was very good of you to help a sick friend.”

“Remind me which of my countless friends is the sick one,” Sherlock says lightly.

“Your Alexander, of course,” replies Mycroft. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “The sickness you refer to is kindheartedness, then again, I wouldn’t expect you to --”

“Kindheartedness.  Oh come, now.  Even you appreciate the import of a defective mitral valve -- perhaps you have one there, hidden in your icebox?  Not sure?  Should you care to, undelete _chronic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy_.”

Sherlock stares at his brother.  “What do you know.”

“You've never researched him?  The peerage on his late mother’s side made for a fascinating read.”  Mycroft’s flourish on that seems unkindly timed, as the incinerated volume on the fire grate audibly collapses in half.  “Add to your hoard of trivia that the smell of lime effectively blocks the scent of sub-lingually administered arrhythmia medication.  Or weren’t you close?”  Mycroft frowns at Sherlock for a long moment.  “Now that you’ve shelved Edward’s book in its proper place.  I believe John will be on his way home soon?”

“He will.”

“Though he may be a bit later with his affections than expected.  He’s stopped off in Egham to visit an old friend by the name of Linda Snow.  Ever mentioned her to you?  No?  Well.  Congratulations, above all.  I hope you will be very happy.”

“Never hope; decide and act,” Sherlock recites. 

Mycroft stands.  “So.  Do take care of one another,” he says airily.

“Dear me.  Concern.”

“You are public figures.  Take care.”  And then Mycroft is gone. 

Sherlock is lightheaded.  Nauseated, as well.  He goes and crawls into bed for a few minutes; the ceiling is spinning overhead; he closes his eyes and rubs them in their sockets, squeezes his teeth together and breathes. 

 _Lime.  Delicious; followed it a half-second too long.  No insistence.  Rare among disappointed men.  The game was a cruel one.  Unnecessary, John, you were right, but it was meant for the painter._ _Wrong.  Wrong.  The flat:  nothing new -- not out of lack of means, but to leave nothing behind.  Freelance work -- quiet.  From home.  Not for lack of ambition.   Mannered speech a technique to control nervous tension, very likely.  Very few but very good clothes rarely needing repair or replacement; meeting to sketch in the morning only, when not yet tired.  Easily fatigued, very cold fingers, rubbing forehead and nose, headaches, feverish eyes when overworked, leaving the table if agitated.   When remarking that John suffered -- empathised -- tapping at the chest._ _Jens thought to catch his arm, he’d have hit the wall._ _Not good. Not good, John. Sketched hearts from Bart's...._ _But they are such beautiful things._

When the ceiling stops turning above him, Sherlock gets up and goes to the kitchen; he switches on the kettle and makes himself two pieces of dry toast and a large mug of weak tea with milk and honey to settle his stomach.  He finds he is even more nauseated by the time he finishes the first piece of toast; every bite has seemed to grow larger as he chews it.

Soon his phone buzzes.  He crosses the room and picks it up.  A text from Mycroft.   _Linda Snow, 39, unmarried, night nurse in Virginia Water, Michael Barrows, 6, Egham 15:35 [attachment]_

He shoves the last of his toast into his teeth to free his hand and enlarges the photograph.

 _Petite, pretty-ish but grimacing, a long vowel, probably E, please, see, he, me, we._ _John has his right arm around her shoulder, head bowed slightly, their faces are very close._ _By his jawline and the position of his ears, not smiling.  Posture protective and rigid.  Trouble.  Left hand on the child’s left shoulder, reassuring._ _Michael Barrows is holding John’s waist, knows him or trusts mother’s friends and / or partners; slim, scraped elbow and forearm, active, perhaps bullied, dressed in faded school clothes, second hand, too large to have been worn out by him; largish ears, face not visible._ _A front garden (tall weeds, night nurse sleeps during the day, nobody to maintain the garden, wilted petunias, distracted, slipping, recent trouble?), an attached multi-unit house of red brick from the 1970s._ _The front door has a single, simple lock, standing partly open; a farewell; the child’s father -- newly dead or absent._

Sherlock puts the phone aside.

The room still smells smoky.  It positively reeks.  He wants four (or five) cigarettes.  He has none.  He might step out -- 

 _No_.  

_Meant to provoke me._

He goes to the window to open it but distractedly picks up his violin instead; it has gone mostly disused recently and the humidity in the last few days has left it with an empty tone.  He tunes it; it protests; he re-tunes it and begins to play -- a song dedicated to the rising temperature of paper fibres beneath handwritten lines.  Soon it is for the Danube, the azure vein which snakes through Linz, Krems, and Tulln, to his beloved Vienna.

_He wouldn’t, would not._ _My John.  Mine._


	23. Nothing gained

Sherlock is at the living room table, reading the latest online crime updates from Ireland, noting the details of a suspicious drowning of a fisherman in Sligo; he is trying to read a second report about it with attention, for comparison.  The fingers of his left hand still ache from pressing at strings.  _Out of practice._  A bit out of sorts, as well.

He hears that John has just come through the front door.  He’s dropped a bag on the floor; he is walking up the stairs energetically.  A quiver of pleasure spreads through Sherlock’s abdomen. John has sighed quietly at the inner door before he reaches out to open it and come in -- so close, finally.  However, when the door swings open, John steps inside without any clear expression of greeting on his face; he looks every bit as tense as he had in the photograph, taken nearly three hours before.  

In the initial disorientation of the moment Sherlock says, “Good evening, John,” then bites his tongue at the ceremony of it.  

“Hey.”  John is still standing near the doorway as if he doesn’t want to walk in any further.  He takes a deep breath.  “I’m being followed.  Sure of it now.”

Sherlock stands and closes some of the distance between them.  He folds his hands behind his back.  He says, “Sometimes two daughters, or a black dog? With a camera on a dark red strap?”

“Oh, God.  Maybe.  With the black dog?  Maybe.”  John’s lips are pressed in a line as he thinks that through.  “So I’m not imagining things.”

“No,” Sherlock says and takes another step forward.  “Mycroft’s.  And rather clumsy.”

“Near Waterloo station just now.  And he was at Ascot, photographing the horses a few yards away from me yesterday, in a different hat.  I’d swear on all ten that I saw him in Burnham Market.”  

Sherlock shrugs a bit.  “His black dog was in the background of the photo you sent me from Hunstanton as well.  Was he in Egham?”

John stares _._ “No, didn’t see him in Egham.”

“Everything all right?”

“No, not really.  Have you eaten anything?”

“Toasts.”

“Yeah, what’s that smell?  Lit a fire today?” 

“It was a book.”

Sherlock is still standing about two feet in front of John.  John suddenly notices how uncomfortable he looks.

“Come, come here.”  John steps forward and puts his arms around him.

Sherlock wraps an arm around John and buries his face in his neck. 

“I’m in a bit of a nark,” John says quietly. 

Sherlock kisses him, just under his jawline, once ( _metallic, salty, delicious_ ).

“Feel like shit,” John is mumbling.  Sherlock reluctantly lets him pull away.  “Let’s go out and have something.”

“Okay.”

Once Sherlock has slipped on his coat and shoes, they walk about four blocks to one of their usual haunts, for Thai food, a destination which they seem to have tacitly agreed upon.  The sun has gone down and a light, acidic mist is dropping over them.  As they walk, the smells of the tumid street seem to come in barrages of three:  tar, caramel, pigeons; vanilla-based perfume oil, bus exhaust, dog hair; motor oil, kebab, shoe vinyl.  John is restless, in a march, staring down at the pavement just ahead as though it were covered with obstructions.

In the restaurant, John looks at the menu for far longer than usual.  “Three dishes and share them,” Sherlock says, finding that not asking John for details about Ascot and Egham is similar in many ways to repressing a forceful sneeze.

“Right, yeah.” John puts aside the card stock page and pulls out his phone absently.

Sherlock goes to the counter and orders John’s favourites.  When he returns to the table, John is scrolling through a text.  Sherlock’s phone rings in his pocket (Lestrade) so he turns and  leaves John, going to the front of the restaurant, where he has a brief exchange with the DI and makes plans to meet him at the Yard the following morning. 

“So I come home and I don’t even ask how you are,” John says, putting his phone aside as Sherlock sits back down.  “What have you been up to while I was away?”

“Well.  Profiling at a burglary of a vault at the headquarters of one of the supermarkets, which was hopeless, not even a 2, ruled out intent in a suspicious street accident, not even suspicious, Skyped with a Canadian chemist who wrote an article about dye permanence in the security fibres in banknotes under the influence of heat, quite fascinating, because it corroborates my own findings in far less controlled conditions.  Mmm.  Met Mycroft.  Burned the parcel we got in Cambridge, so if you were wondering what that noxious smell was it was the stench of burnt poetry.”

"Right."  In a moment, John says, “Poetry.  So that’s what Mycroft got from the man in Cambridge?”

 _Truth, quite unlike a lie, elicits questions._   “Yes.  About me.  I didn’t read them.” 

The food arrives on a tray, followed immediately by two empty dishes, plunked unceremoniously in front of them with cutlery wrapped in gaudy, checkered paper serviettes.  John reaches out and starts serving noodles onto their plates.

“Who wrote them?” John asks, hissing as he tries to stop a slippery torrent of _mi krop_ with the side of a spoon.

“Nobody of importance,” Sherlock says, folding his hands on the tabletop and looking closely at John’s face.

John glances up at the weight of those eyes as he sets down the noodles.  “Hoping for more than that,” he mutters, as he reaches for the plates with fried rice and _panang gai_ and serves them up as well.  He pushes a plate closer to Sherlock.   “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that these poems would be handed over on our way back from Norfolk?”

“Odd?  No.”

John is speaking between bites of chicken now.  “So why burn them, if it was nobody of importance.”

“John.”

“A lover from your Cambridge days.”

“No.”

“Not in the mood to play games.  Who.”

Sherlock replies quickly:  “Someone I knew at Cambridge wrote them.  It is irrelevant to me.  Mycroft heard of them from the professor and procured the book, he thought it was important, I believe him.  So consider it his blessing, and let it go.”   _Enough, John._

“A man or a woman?” John asks flatly.

Sherlock doesn’t respond to that.  He focuses on not choking on his food instead.

“You won’t ever talk about them?”

Sherlock swallows with some effort and says,  “I told you, _I didn’t read them_.”

“Your _lovers_ , Sherlock.”  John shakes his head and scrapes at his noodles. 

_Lovers!_ _Meanwhile, in other news, Michael, aged 6, clings to you as if his life depended on it:  who is that broken family.  Who, that they awaken such paternal concern in you?  And do tell what congenital mitral stenosis means in the context of chronic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, in my friend’s chest --_

Sherlock elects to keep holding his tongue, for John.  But it is quite an effort.  He chooses to eat in order to silence himself, a rare occurrence, indeed.   After a few minutes, John seems to have noticed he is doing it, too. 

Of course he would.

“If you’ve had a bad experience, we can talk about it,” John is saying; he is watching Sherlock more carefully now.

“No.”

John nods and seems to be calculating which angle to ask from next.  Sherlock suddenly feels ill; too much chicken, too fast, too much of _this_.   He sits back a bit.

“Are you all right?” John asks, chewing.  “Look.  We can talk about them.  Former lovers.  I swear, it won’t turn me off.” 

Sherlock drops his fork and knife onto his plate with a clatter. “Talking about former lovers turns _me_ off!” he snaps. 

“Sherlock.”

“I’ve seen enough.”  Sherlock waves his long hands in agitation.  “But I would never dream of talking about them.  They are not my concern.  Neither should you ask me, where there is nothing to speak of.   _Anything gained, John?_ ” 

John is mortified by that outburst.  He notices he has been rolling a salt shaker around in his hand and finally drops it into a plastic condiment holder that is perched nearby. 

He finds he doesn’t have the words to respond, particularly when he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are literally shining with hurt; in a moment, though, it has been overcome and has vanished into the blankness of a long stare at the tabletop between them.

“Nothing gained,” John mumbles.

He hopes to God, in passing, that he is not Sherlock’s first.  Then he realises that, in all truth, he really hopes he is.  

Either way, he has lost his appetite completely.  He tries to breathe out some of the tension in his chest.  “I’ve never understood how you could be alone, at all,” he says, waving his hand toward Sherlock.  “Look at yourself sometime.  And you’ve settled --“

“Don’t,” Sherlock growls.  And his eyes glitter with anger when John opens his mouth to speak. “Think of what I am.”

“Shut --”

“Ask yourself who would have wanted my companionship.  And who, despite wanting a family, has settled for the poorest lot.”

“You said yourself this bloody well wasn’t taken lightly,” John barks back.  “Maybe you’ll get it through your thick skull one of these days, that we’re in this.”

Sherlock has taken his phone out and is scrolling through something along his screen. 

John wants to go home and starts moving plates around on the table.  “Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing his face.  “Fetch us some cartons.”

Sherlock has brought up the photograph from Egham.  “Okay,” he says stiffly, and hands over the phone to John.  John’s eyebrows rise, then furrow, as he stares down at the screen.  Sherlock stands up from the table, pushing his chair in.

John looks up at him with confusion and concern on his face.  “That’s Linda, a friend from my Bart’s days, and her son, Mike.  I was visiting them today in -- okay, right.  Egham.”

Sherlock goes to the ordering counter, returning shortly with a plastic bag of small paper boxes; he unfolds them and holds them open as John tries to dump the rest of the food in them without losing too much of it on the tabletop; he swears under his breath.

“Okay, John.” Sherlock pockets his phone and says, “On the way back I want you to tell me everything -“

“Yeah, yeah....”

“-- you know about congenital cases of mitral stenosis you have seen in your practice, particularly among non-smoking white males between 30 and 45 years of age.”

John shakes his head slowly because he is thinking it might just explode in a few minutes.


	24. Croydon

Sherlock and John walk back to Baker Street quickly in a light rain; as they go, John says a few words about valve hypoplasia, pulmonary congestion, blood regurgitation, atrial fibrillation, and instances of sudden heart failure and death.  Sherlock listens carefully but doesn’t guide him much with further questions, so as they come back into the flat he ends his spontaneous lecture without understanding anything of its purpose. 

On his way up the stairs, John grabs his travel bag with the intention of going for a much-needed shower.  As they enter the kitchen, Sherlock says suddenly, “You went to visit the missing father.” 

It occurs to John that Sherlock might have been putting off asking him that until they were not being listened to on the street.  Then he decides he is being paranoid.  “Yeah, well, all of them,” he says, going straight to the sink to wash his hands.  He takes the kettle and fills it; Sherlock throws the Thai food into the refrigerator and pushes the door shut with his foot. 

John clicks on the kettle and begins looking for mugs.  “All right.  From the start.  I have a friend who last I knew was living in Egham and I haven’t paid him the mind I should have in the last several years.  I didn’t have his number, it was out of service, but I popped by.  It’s on the line from Ascot, close to the station.  And it turned out he wasn’t there.  So I talked to Linda.  His partner, from the photo you have.  She’s a nurse, we were actually at Bart’s together, and, yeah, I introduced them.  But today I found out he left them almost five months ago, just walked out and told her not to look for him, and completely cut off contact.  Even with Mike.  They _wanted_ that boy, so much.  They.  Well --” John is digging around in the open cupboard above him; finally he turns around and looks at Sherlock.  “So the poor girl is falling apart.  Works nights in another town, and she said some sketchy types came by asking for him, talking about racing debts, but she doesn’t know where he is, so there.  But she also said she thinks he was hiding something from her, health-wise, and I have to admit I have a bad feeling all around.  Why would he leave them. The man is no coward, Sherlock.”

 _To protect them, John, you already know._   “Who is he?” Sherlock asks, looking at John piercingly.

“Retired Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” John says with some difficulty; he sees Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

 _Jim, it’s dark, it’s too dark._ “But who is he to you.”

“He helped me out,” John replies.

“Yes, he did,” Sherlock says. 

“Pulled my arse out,” John answers, closing his eyes and compressing the bridge of his nose with his fingers.  “Heavy fire.”

 _Saved you for me._ Sherlock takes John by the arm and pulls him, perhaps more roughly than he intends to, into an embrace, but John doesn’t mind.  The contact and warmth feel wonderful and John is glad for it; Sherlock will work everything out and needn’t even be asked; he’ll find the man if he has to tear London to ribbons to do it.  It means the world to John now to be there, in that grotty kitchen, and he finally starts to feel calmer.  Work and the distractions of London have only intensified the need to find this closeness again; the last few days he has wanted for it.  They both have. 

John has recovered.  He is running his hands affectionately across Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock kisses John’s head near his temple. 

Sherlock is trying to remember something.  It is a sense memory, kept very deep.  Well hidden.  His mind is working over it; _too slow, too slow!  What.  Something_.  _John.  Warm, adrenaline, rain, streets, sweat, Thai sauce, very close, very warm._   He buries his nose in John’s hair.  _Warm, very close._   _Oh.  Croydon._

He pulls away a bit and says quietly, “No tea, John.”

John lifts his head and turns to look at the countertop.  “Oh, right, sorry.”

“I said no tea.” Sherlock holds his arm more firmly.  “No.  Kiss me.”

“I must be talking too much,” John remarks, and looks up at him.  He is a bit surprised when he sees that Sherlock is quite serious, and very turned on.  Sherlock pulls him into a smothering, soft kiss.  At first John can hardly breathe; his nose is a bit stopped up from emotion.  Sherlock is stroking his tongue against John’s lips and slides it into his mouth; John sighs audibly; it is incredible to be the focus of Sherlock’s kisses when they are so determined -- like these are becoming, now.  He has missed them and now he feels it everywhere as his blood begins to rush.  John feels Sherlock’s long fingers running slowly down his arms.  Sherlock moves his head and presses his nose against John’s neck, breathing him in.  He is taking John’s hands in his. “ _Undress_ us,” he says in John’s ear.  John tries working open Sherlock’s shirt while Sherlock pushes his tongue into John’s mouth again, running it against his with impossible intensity.  _Far too many fiddly buttons on these sleeves_ \-- John finally pulls the shirt off of Sherlock’s shoulders and arms and drops it, and starts on his own shirt with his left hand.  Sherlock is momentarily distracted from kissing John; he is watching.  With his right, John runs several fingertips thievingly over the length of Sherlock’s cock and sees him grind his teeth together.  John smiles ( _so, so responsive, and likes fiddly pain-in-the-arse buttons, let him_ ).  “Go on,” he says, and Sherlock looks at him like he’s just been given a beautiful puzzle; his eyes are dark with delight as he pulls apart John’s shirt and kisses around his jaw the entire time.  But Sherlock seems to be taking in a precise impression -- his scent -- with particular attention, much to John’s discomfort; he _really_ wants to go and get cleaned up a bit, share a shower, anything; Sherlock is licking and kissing him, snaking tongue and lips down his clavicles, breathing in the sweat in the fabric of his shirt collar, down his chest, under his arms.  It has to be godawful, thinks John, after the train rides, the taxis and the streets, and all the perspiration and adrenaline of the day.  His salty hair reeks of dirty rain.  He has spicy food and railway coffee in his pores; the antibacterial soap smell remains on his hands, likely the only redeeming thing about him.  Then Sherlock makes a dark sound in his throat, a blatantly sensual groan.  John has not heard the likes of it before, and he is quickly brought back to the more immediate sensation of those quick fingers, which are brushing over his chest as he takes in the smell of his neck again.  “John,” Sherlock is saying, low, against his skin, “you smelled _like_ _this_.  The Croydon slasher, the stakeout, remember --”

“Yeah.”   _Vile after all, let me go._

“The same,” Sherlock mumbles, almost as if to himself, pulling back John’s shirt and burying his lips in John’s neck.  “ _The same_.”

John remembers that stakeout well:  a warm, muggy day, with lots of cheap food, and a nerve-fueled evening -- hours  spent watching, in tight quarters, from a small attic window, to see if their suspect would make a crucial mistake, which he did, as Sherlock had anticipated, attacking a plainclothes officer in the street beneath them.  He and Sherlock had been thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, with Greg crouched just behind them, monitoring the positions of several other officers.  It had affected John, and yes, his mind had wandered.  Everywhere.  Apparently Sherlock had been much less focused on the street than he’d let on, as well. 

That is definitely hot, John decides.  Extremely.  _But_.  “Just.  Let me go wash up,” he says and backs off.

“You wouldn’t dare,”  Sherlock answers threateningly, pulling him closer again and running his lips and tongue along John’s shoulder.  

 _Talkative.  And he claims talk puts him off._  John makes a quick calculation and smiles to himself.

John pulls Sherlock’s lips back to his and gives him his tongue again.  He bites him and kisses his lips alternately, running his fingers along Sherlock’s cock, this time more decisively.  His trousers are a bit damp now.  “Listen to me,” John says, very close to Sherlock’s mouth.  “There in Croydon,” he says, “there was something I wanted to do.”He runs a palm between Sherlock’s legs and strokes him; Sherlock shudders.  John unbuttons and opens Sherlock’s flies, staring him in the face a bit insolently, as he teases him with his fingertips.  “I might have just done it,” he says, pulling down Sherlock’s pants just enough to get his hand in them fully.  Sherlock hums deep in his throat. “Except Greg was there.  He might have seen us.”

“Seen us -- what?”  Sherlock is so focused on him now that it is a bit alarming.  He looks like he is about to crack in half on the spot. 

John runs his hand over Sherlock’s cock and kisses him almost chastely now.  “Mmm,  Still don’t know?”  John asks, smiling.  Sherlock shakes his head.  John steers him toward one of the bent metal kitchen chairs by the table. “Sit,” he says, pushing him down, and drops onto one knee in front of him.  John takes him in his mouth, closes his eyes.  He begins working his fingers, lips and tongue over the length of Sherlock’s cock and thinks of Croydon.

_Your entire left side pressed up hard against me, so focused, but on the street, not on me.  Or were you?  I might have checked.  It would’ve been easy, you were right there, so close.  Just steal a touch and see what you’d do.  Just reach over, see if you were feeling it too, touch your thigh when Greg wasn’t looking, like while he’s distracted, writing a text, run a hand along your leg very quietly, watch you hold your breath and struggle inside, stuck in that great brain of yours, trying to deduce why, why now, why here, what I mean, what I want from you, until finally you’d ignore it, a bit desperate, staring at the street.  I’d let up.  But not for long.  I would slide my hand down your thigh again, watch you fight to ignore it, but we’d both know you’re about to lose the game, because I’d go and brush your balls with the back of my hand, and you would be dying inside.  You would try, so fucking hard, to be above it, but a few more strokes like that and you’d be dying for a wank, trying to control it.  Losing it.  Greg would see.  Of course he would see.  You’re so bloody hot, even he has to see it.  (Just enjoy yourself, love, this is for you now, just enjoy it, it’s for you)  He’d make a thick excuse.  And leave us.  We’d be in that grimy window, just us.  Finally just you and me.  And I would tell you in your ear -- I’m going to suck you off, you gorgeous bastard, you’ve no idea how you drive me round the fucking bend, every day worse, walking round the flat starkers, or half-dressed, in the hallway, just out of the bath, your body steaming, so hot, those fucking dressing gowns, unapologetic, you don’t even care, your cock a bit visible, long and tempting, like the rest of you, insanely hot, you, so ignorant, all control and posh reserve, sodding rude and impossible, and so fucking sexy (Enjoy it, my love, I can do this for you, it’s only for you, enjoy yourself) but don’t even see, what you do to me, how you drive me mad.  Let me have you, now while Greg is gone, I’ll just get you off, right here, make you feel good.  Make you lose control.  See you catch on fire, just for me.  For me.  Only for me.  (Enjoy it, enjoy this, no, no, my love, I’m not going to stop, no, not this time, not this time.  Not this time.  For you, for you, for you, no no no, let go, let go, I can take it.  I can take it, I can take a lot.  I can.  ...   I can.  And still love you.  Insanely.  More every day.  I still love you.)_

John doesn’t know what he will see when he raises his head.  He runs a hand over his mouth and looks at Sherlock’s face as he stands up from the floor -- or, John would look at Sherlock’s face, if he didn’t have it buried in his hands.  John bends over and kisses the side of Sherlock’s head.  “Love you,” he says quietly, and goes to have his shower, leaving his dearest friend in the world in the kitchen to recover his senses slowly, alone.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he sees that Sherlock has mostly redressed himself and is at the living room window, looking down at the dark street below with a cup of tea in his hand; a second one, for John, is steaming on the table near him.  A perfect invitation to reconnect if ever there was one on earth.  He goes over to pick it up and slips a warm hand around Sherlock’s waist.  Sherlock buries his nose in John’s damp hair and mumbles,  “Liked it better before.”  And John grins into his cup as he sips, watching Baker Street at Sherlock’s side.

***

John has nightmares in the early morning and wakes up with a start to find himself alone in Sherlock’s bed.  Sherlock, he decides, is probably up reading or poking about at the kitchen table; this time, John wants to keep the fact of his dreams to himself.  He breathes steadily and quietly until the knot of panic inside of him begins to dissolve.  Soon he turns over and closes his eyes again, blissfully unaware that Sherlock has already taken the last Reading-bound train out of Waterloo, and has just managed to pick the lock of a service door at a senior care facility in Virginia Water -- in under 20 seconds and in total darkness, much to his own satisfaction. 


	25. Lioness, puzzle piece

Sherlock passes through a dark storage room.  No motion sensors or cameras in sight, he straightens his back and listens.  Near-silence hums in his ears, nothing more.  As he slips soundlessly along a lengthy hallway lined in numbered doors, his heels and toes are illuminated every four feet or so by tiny diode lights inset along decorative floor moulding.  His fingertips are brushing lightly against the textured wallpaper behind his back, a dated tweedy floral; soon the paper ends and is replaced by cool, smooth synthetic panels.  He sees a hub just ahead where three hallways converge.  It is a foyer with glass insets in the ceiling; the cloudy night has afforded him no moonlight.  He pads closer to a tall, built-in reception desk unit and counter, finished in faux wood with a damask sash draped along its front, which, in turn, seems to be trimmed in random bunches of silk flowers.  Just behind these gaudy treatments sits a petite, pretty-ish residential dementia care nurse; she is gazing with concentration at a computer screen in the darkness and has not registered Sherlock’s noiseless approach.  At such an advantage, Sherlock crouches and takes a moment to watch her.  Then he snickers to himself and draws up to the desk, straightening himself to full height.  At the sight of him in the strangely cold-coloured screen light -- pale, rather wild-haired from the misty night air, in his dark coat, far too close -- she squeaks, “ _Holy fucking Christ!_ ” She springs from her chair in a half-second, flourishing a long pair of metal office scissors in her little fist.  Sherlock snatches her by the wrist and chuckles at her.  “Ms. Linda Snow, I presume,” he says.  

“Yeah,” she says, looking quickly at his hand and back at his face.

In the brief moment he is holding her off, he notes that the top of her head barely reaches his collarbone, even in her thick-soled nursing clogs (one of which has just slipped off her foot and hit the linoleum with a thud, throwing her slightly off balance).   _A doll-like and deadly dementia care-taker_.  _John's friend, indeed_.  He finds he likes her already. 

He lets go of her.  “It’s all right.  My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m --“

“John’s boyfriend,” she says, setting down the scissors.  She sighs.

His momentary silence seems to have been taken as a confirmation. 

She is clearly relieved, and finally smiles, though her eyes are still wide and her breathing quick.  She goes on:  “I’ve heard so much about you, should have recognised you, straight away.  Whoo.... Startled me.  Yeah.  Right.  Please, call me Linda.”  She puts out her hand (open this time, without scissors); he takes it.  “I’m glad you’re here.  John said he would talk to you for me, but I didn’t expect you -- so you’re a good detective?”

Sherlock doesn’t manage to respond to that in time, either, before she continues: “You broke in, didn’t you.” She starts giggling into her hand without warning.  “John said you do that.  Well, okay, then, I’m glad you’ve come.  We need your help.  But just let me go get you a coffee, you’re looking all-in.  Loads of sugar, right?  I know, I’ve heard.  Wait here, I’ll be right back, just wait.”  She dashes off.  At the end of the hall she tells a yawning cleaning lady, “everything’s all right, Kimmie, he’s here to see me, he’s all right.”

_And I’m a good detective._

Sherlock leans down and has a look at her desk and the screen of her computer.  Job listings for assisted living nurses in central London.  Browser history filled with job listing sites, loan company offers, and news pages.

Soon she is clogging (on tiptoe) back through the dark with a tall china mug of coffee and a sugar bowl in her hands.  She sets both down in front of Sherlock and starts to pull out a folding chair from her side of the desk.  Sherlock shakes his head and thanks her for the coffee.  He starts sweetening it but stops himself at three heaping spoons.

“So you’ve come out from London all this way tonight, haven’t you.  I start my rounds soon,” she says, looking at her watch, worn face-inward on her wrist.  “But we can talk.”

“So Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows, your partner, has got himself in a bit of trouble,” Sherlock says.

“Jim.  I don’t know how much John’s already told you, but --”

“Very little,” he says casually.

“Well, yeah.  If I’d told him any more there’s no telling what he’d go and do.”

“He was visiting you and Michael yesterday mid-afternoon, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, it was great to see him again.”  She sighs and looks away.

 _John’s protective nature._ “He is fond of Michael, isn’t he.” 

“Well, yeah.  They adore each other, always have.  John’s such a sweetheart, Mike was so happy to --”

“But, wait.  Where is Michael right now?” he asks, furrowing his brows at her.

Fear flickers in her eyes.  “With my mum, of course.  He’s at my parents’ place now.”

“Ah.”  Sherlock swallows a generous sip of hot coffee.  “Jim’s absence came as a surprise to John.”

“Well, yeah, because he knows how Jim is.”

“Of course he does,” Sherlock remarks, shrugging.  “We might start there.  John and Jim.”

“Just that you probably already know everything about John and Jim,” she replies.

 _Generous of you to think so._  “I want to hear _your_ take on it,” Sherlock says.

“John and Jim.  The thing is, Jim doesn’t really talk about Kandahar and I don’t ask anymore.  It’s really hard on him so we leave it alone.  You know how John talked Jim through that night early on, well, Jim says that he’d have shot himself in the head if it weren’t for John and I believe it.  Jim has never forgotten that.  We owe John a lot for knowing what to say that night, because otherwise we'd have never met.  Yeah, and so, later, when Jim found John bleeding out and left behind like that, of course he carried him out, of course he had to get him out of there no matter what.  He’d never have left him there, dead or alive, ever!  Well, you know the rest, thank God they got out and John pulled through all that, right?  But see, _that’s_ my Jim, Sherlock.  He’d have carried John home to London on his back, that’s what he’s like.  He is a lion, a real man.  Well, like John, right?” 

Sherlock stares at her, confounded inside.  _A lion._  

She goes on.  “So.  The rest you know, about how Liz left and ran off to Manchester, just after I met Jim.  John was the one who brought him to meet me and we just clicked, and then Mike came along.  John took care of everything when I was in hospital for the last two months with Mike, so Jim wouldn’t worry while he was overseas on his last tour.  Well, then later we saw less of John, because he was working with you by then, and at the clinic.  But I knew John hadn’t ever forgotten about us, we’re all just busy living normal lives, that’s understandable.  So whenever they were together they didn’t talk about Afghanistan.  Kind of talked around it, if that makes any sense.” She looks at her watch again.  “The truth is I didn’t get in touch with John about Jim, because I’ve been thinking he’ll come right back home.  But I know something’s wrong now.  He hasn’t been in touch with John at all, either, as it turns out.  That’s what scares me, that he’s not contacted any of our friends, that I know of.  So to answer you, finally, that’s why John was surprised to find Jim gone.  He knows it doesn’t make sense.  And then these -- bastards!  Hyenas.  Oh, God, I hate them _so fucking much_.”

Sherlock’s heart is pounding in his ears and he is burning to ask her more but decides in favour of a delayed first person account -- he will insist on it, he decides in the aggravation of the moment. 

He drops his voice.  “All right.  Calmly.” (Though he might as well be addressing himself, now.)  “Tell me why Jim’s creditors have resorted to threatening the safety of your son.”

Her eyes widen and shine over with tears instantly.  “How do you know?” she whispers, glancing in the direction of where the cleaning lady had been standing earlier.

Sherlock leans forward.  “To whom, and how much,” he whispers back.

“In Ascot.  It’s the U. brothers.”

Sherlock flexes his hands around the coffee mug and frowns.

“You’ve heard of them?  Well, yeah, you would’ve, in your line of work.  And it’s _all_ off the books, Sherlock.”

“How much, Linda.”

“Almost seventeen thousand, and counting.  They said over three thousand of it’s interest.  Yes, I know.  It’s -- I’m looking around for a better job, though.”  Her voice has quavered here.  “He must have started again after he left us.  They had his address from before, well, a few years ago he quit with the horses, after Mike was born.  But he’s started up again.  Now they want to get to Jim through us.” 

“Clearly.”

“Listen,” she says, “John can’t know _anything_ about Mike.  He might go off and do something crazy and I can’t let him.  Promise you won’t say anything.”

Sherlock exhales.  “John mentioned that you suspect Jim might be ill?”

“I found a copy of his lab work in the rubbish after he left.  His immune system is weak, high protein, very low blood cell counts.  Renal failure, cancer?  I wish I could tell you more, it drives me mad not knowing if he needs my help, absolutely mad!  Look, I have to do my round.  Coming with me?  We can still talk while we go.”

“No, no.  Can you show me a photograph of Jim?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure,” she says, and starts clicking around on the computer; she logs in to an online photo archive.  “A few hundred of Jim.  Maybe a few of John, too, hang on -- oh, here, look.  All three of the boys.”

John, Jim, and baby Mike; baby Mike and John; Jim and Mike; Jim and Linda and Mike, with John’s shadow in the foreground.  Sherlock looks at a dozen or so and decides he’s had more than enough.

“But do you need somewhere to sleep, Sherlock?”

“No, thank you,” he says.  He stands up with her.  “I need to think.  But I’d rather nobody disturbed me.”

“Have our break room,” she says, “You can lock it from inside and nobody will come by until about six-ish.”

“Thank you.” 

“Thank _you_ ,” she says, motioning for him to follow her.  “For all the trouble you’ve gone to, I appreciate it,” she says quietly, as they start down the same hallway he had passed through earlier.  “And that's great about you and John, he deserves it, he of all people, well, you know.  I wish you many, many happy years together,” she says, opening a door to a small room containing three puffy, worn armchairs, a low triangular table and a countertop with several small appliances, coffees, tea boxes and mugs scattered on it.  “Okay.  Here it is.”

“What shall I tell Jim, where you are concerned?” he asks.

“That whatever he’s done and whatever happens I want him to come home, and we’ll find a way to pay off everything.” She looks up at him.  “Tell him we love him and we want him no matter what.”

 _Lioness, puzzle piece._ He offers his hand to her.  “We’ll be in touch soon,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Linda says.  “Good night.”  She backs away, smiles hopefully and then hurries off, the diode lights above the floor flashing on her tiny ankles and calves. 

Sherlock closes the door to the break room, turns its feeble pot-metal bolt lock, and drops into one of the armchairs. 

_(Boyfriend?)_ _He told her._

_Bleeding out, left behind.  My John._

_Intense, long, certain, speedy, fruitful, pure; such marks in pleasures and in pains endure._ _Such pleasures seek if private be thy end: if it be public, wide let them extend.  S_ _uch pains avoid, whichever by thy view: if pains must come, let them extend to few._ _To few.  To few!_

Sherlock’s teeth buzz as he sets them hard and closes his eyes. 

***

At just after 5 a.m. Sherlock takes the first train to Ascot and pays a visit to the brothers U., knocking them up from bed.  It’s a bit of a tradition they have; even so, they are not amenable to any concessions.  At first.  When they hear the details of a tax fraud conviction that hangs by a stray thread over their sleepy pinheads they finally agree to lower the interest on the debt by twenty-three hundred if they receive the entire amount up front. Immediately. 

It is the best deal Sherlock will get and he knows it; the banks in Ascot open their doors at 9 o’clock on Monday mornings so to pass the time the three play at cards. Sherlock gradually empties the younger U.’s open packet of unfiltered Gauloises ( _delicious_ ).  By 9:25 the brothers U. are ready to go back to bed. Sherlock hops on the 9:40 commuter back to Waterloo. 

While he is on the train Mycroft calls to inquire into Sherlock’s substantial investment in organic alfalfa. Sherlock informs his brother that he is getting sluggish in his middle age but asks if any of the royal houses have had a diadem go missing. 

He glances at his watch and texts Lestrade that he won’t be coming to the Yard to help him practice pat answers for the 12:00 Q&A with the press, after all.

When he arrives at Baker Street, his dearest person in the world is sitting in the kitchen, reading the morning news at the table with a cup of tea in his hand. _Beautiful John._ Sherlock comes closer and kisses John’s head lightly ( _nine cigarettes_ ). 

“Mmmm.  Good morning,” John says, gazing up at him.  “If they only knew about all the work you do behind the scenes.  You are amazing.”

John holds up a colourful front page, emblazoned _HOW, YOU BIN-MAN?_ detailing the case and impending trial of the rubbish collector.  The warmth in John’s eyes is spreading through Sherlock’s entire chest.  

Sherlock’s phone starts ringing in his pocket.  He runs his left (less-smoky) hand through John’s hair as he turns away and answers it.  “No, I’m still at home,” he says.  “No.  No, don’t bother.  The press wants to write about identity theft, nobody will care about the numbers.  Mmm.  I’ll ask him.”  Sherlock rings off.  “Already texted him I wasn’t going in,” he tells John vaguely.  “There’s a press conference in a few minutes about --“ (Sherlock waves a hand around facetiously) “-- rubbish and Lestrade invited us for a drink after five.  Go if you want, I don’t --“

“Yeah, sounds great.  Or, okay, I’ll call him later on,” John says, standing up with his empty plate. “Bangers and mash, if you want something like a brunch?  Make you some coffee?”

Sherlock nods and goes into the bathroom.  His fingers are trembling badly (nicotine, nausea, nerves, need for John) _._ He washes his hands and face carefully.  With the worst of the ( _delectable!_ ) French cigarettes at least semi-deleted from his fingers and mouth ( _a hopeless cause after all_ ), he comes back to the kitchen, where John is shoveling warmed food out of a frying pan onto a plate for him.  As he watches, Sherlock momentarily has the impression that he is standing within a thick glass jar; the sight and sound of John seem to reach him with slight distortion.

John is open, loving, eager to praise, wanting to talk.  They sit down together at a corner of the kitchen table; Sherlock's retorts have been pushed to the centre; John starts talking about Ascot (Sherlock has asked him about the horse show).  It had been a stylish affair, a private viewing, ‘an equestrian Queen Charlotte’s ball’, as his friend’s wife put it, at someone’s stables, organised for doctors by a pharma concern; they’d not been terribly discreet about it; even the scantily dressed champagne hostesses had turned out to be impeccably-skilled sales reps with advanced psycholinguistics training with whom Sherlock would have had a bloody field day; dozens of potentially hilarious deductions on that nipped-and-tucked lot of hoity-toity medical bodies and nobodies there for the taking, he says, and without him he’d ended up bored out of his freaking mind and wanting to leave and come home for a proper snog, though he had already accepted his friend’s invitation to stay over at their country house and they’d gone to some trouble; he’d felt indebted; Mycroft’s photographer had disturbed him; he’d stayed put, gone to Egham, missed him...

John thanks Sherlock for his help with the buttons. 

“Buttons,” Sherlock repeats absently.  John smiles and pushes a pair of borrowed diamond cuff links ( _gift from a client, forgotten which_ ) closer toward him on the tabletop. “Ah,” he says, looking at John’s ( _strong, mannish_ ) hand as it recedes again.  He smiles, his cup pleasantly warm against his lower lip.  “Any time.”   

“Zeroed right in on that,” John comments. “You like buttons, a bit.”

“Possibly,” Sherlock answers.  “Ask me about it again later.”

“Oh, I will,” John says, picking up his newspaper and clearing his throat, meaningfully.  “And I know you were out smoking.”  He goes to the sofa and flops down to read.

Sherlock chuckles and finishes his breakfast quickly, mainly to please John, and then goes and joins him, curling up with his head resting in John’s lap.  John is half reading the paper and half watching Lestrade on the telly across the room as he reminds his countrymen of the importance of destroying sensitive information before binning it. 

“ _So, it’s all about common sense and exercising a bit of extra caution_ ,” Lestrade is saying, as flashes go off in his face.

“True enough,” John mumbles.

“ _So take care when disposing of receipts, bills, and, of course, credit card reports that show your spending habits.  Or statements that show your current bank balance, things you wouldn’t want anyone from outside having a look at_....” 

Sherlock rolls over a bit and looks up at John’s calm face.  John moves his newspaper aside a little more and smiles down at him.  _(Proud of me.)_   John pets him (smoothing what had gone wayward in the night) with his fingertips; Sherlock’s eyes begin to drop closed.


	26. Sixth sense

It is nearly six thirty in the evening. After receiving a text from John, Sherlock has reluctantly decided to join him and Greg Lestrade at the DI’s favourite pub.  They are already looking festive by the time he arrives and Lestrade appears to be recounting details of Sherlock’s profiling on cold cases.  John hadn’t been aware of all of them; he seems impressed.  Sherlock listens quietly, looking across the table at them, as they begin recalling the crime scene and the rubbish collector himself.

“And thanks to you we got our man right away.” Lestrade nods over at Sherlock with his chin.  “That was a lucky break, wasn’t it.”

“Not lucky,” Sherlock mumbles, drumming his fingertips against the tabletop. 

“He had it coming.  He was unwise enough to stand by and wait for Sherlock to pluck him out,” John adds. 

_Taptaptap...tap...tap...tap...taptaptap (how would t-e-d-i-u-m  sound in Morse?) tap...tap-tap..._

“And you sure as hell plucked him out.  Of society, for a good long while.”  Lestrade raises his glass toward Sherlock.  “To your sixth sense for these things, whatever it is.”

“To your sixth sense,” John reiterates, smiling proudly.

“Drink to him, then,” Sherlock says to Lestrade, gesturing at John. “He’s my sixth sense.”  Lestrade and John both pause mid-toast and look at him with widened eyes, but for different reasons. “John immediately pointed out that the man’s throat looked like it had been cut open with extreme violence using a piece of scrap metal,” Sherlock explains. 

_Taptaptap...tap...tap...tap..._

“Yeah,” Lestrade says, nodding enthusiastically.  “That’s true, good on you, John, good call.”

John looks chuffed.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock says, pulling a ringing phone out of his pocket and standing up.  “Yes?  Yes.  Excellent,” he is saying into the receiver, as he walks away from them and slips outside.

“Write that one down for posterity,” Lestrade says, elbowing John, whose eyes have been following Sherlock’s progress through the pub and out the door.  “Don’t think you’ll hear the likes of that again.”

“Likes of what?” John asks.

“Called you his 'sixth sense',” Lestrade shakes his head in mock wonder.  “About the best you’re ever gonna get from ‘im.  Wanna ‘nother?  On me.”

“Sure,” John says, grinning, and gives his empty glass to Lestrade.  “Cheers, Greg.”

In a moment Sherlock is back, looking even more restless than before.  He is pleased, in fact; he knows John will be, too. 

“What’s on?” John asks.  He is licking his lips.

“J --“   _Think, for God’s sake!_   _John didn’t refer to him as ‘Jim’ -- only in his sleep --_

“Sergeant Barrows is in west London,” Sherlock says quickly. 

“Serious?”  John’s face softens so expressively into admiration that Sherlock’s entire chest momentarily expands at the sight.

“Waiting for details,” Sherlock answers, though John sees he has instantaneously flattened his voice.  Lestrade is back with pints for himself and John. He hands John’s over. 

“Sherlock?  You really don’t want anything?” he asks.  Sherlock shakes his head.  Lestrade shrugs. 

Sherlock sits with his hands folded on the tabletop.  He endures watching them go through those pints and start their next ones.  John is drinking too fast now, he notes. Agitated.  They are talking animatedly but without purpose about play-offs; they analyse choices of mascots and locations from past tournaments. 

Soon Lestrade starts slurring on about a street accident that had happened earlier in the day.

“...So she’s blind, so, legally blind.  And her guide dog, like, ran her right out into the middle of a busy crossing, near Earl’s Court, just took her right out.  She got hit and now she’s going to need a lot of physical therapy before she gets back on her feet again.”

“Really too bad,” John remarks, nodding to himself.  He seems to be running his fingers over his left knee.  Sherlock tries to ignore that fact and folds his arms tightly over his chest.  He focuses on Lestrade’s hairline, and soon decides it has indeed remained unchanged in the last ten minutes. 

He is saying, “Operated on her already.  The driver didn’t have a chance to brake.  The dog didn’t make it, they had to put ‘im down.”

“Wow,” John answers.  “All around that's too bad.  Look, she went and put so much trust in her dog and --”

“It wasn’t her dog,” Sherlock says suddenly.  It is the first thing he has said in a long while and Lestrade and John both seem startled to hear his voice again, which he finds instantly irritating.

“Wha--?” Lestrade asks him, leaning forward.

“ _It wasn’t her dog_ ,” Sherlock repeats, through the din of the pub.

Lestrade starts laughing as he picks up his glass.  “Ehh, come on, Sherlock.  We’re going to trial with a watertight seventeen counts on that bastard, time to celebrate.  Cheers,” Lestrade says, turning to John.

“A guide dog wouldn’t lead its owner into heavy traffic,” Sherlock says firmly.  “They are not pets, they work.”

John, smelling trouble, looks back and forth from Sherlock to Lestrade and has another sip of beer.

“This one got a scare,” Lestrade says.  “Bad luck.”

“Got a _scare?_ ”  Sherlock raises his voice. 

“Sherlock,” John says, “No point now.”

Sherlock shakes his head at him, once, and turns on Lestrade:  “Have you just completed a course in ignorance training?  Where are its remains.  You said it was put down, where is it now!”

“Hell if I know, probably at a veterinarian’s.” Lestrade is rubbing his forehead.  “I dunno....”

“Who wrote up the accident report?” Sherlock is already standing and putting on his scarf.

“How should I know.  Probably Taylor,” Lestrade says.  “I think.  Yeah.  Sergeant Taylor.  Where are you going?”

“Coming with you,” John says, getting up.

“No, you are not,” Sherlock says decisively, and then he is gone.

“What the devil’s he on about,” Lestrade says to the edge of his pint glass as he tips it to the side a bit and studies what remains of the head on his beer.

“Well, he obviously went somewhere,” John points out.

“Yeah.  Don’t know -- some bloody dog?”

“Where did he go, you think?”

“Who, the dog?”

And the rest of the evening passes similarly.  John and Lestrade watch the rest of a match and even end up singing a few traditional songs along with some other pub-goers. 

Sherlock and Sergeant Taylor locate the crushed body of the dog -- a yellow Labrador -- and they remove some blood, fur and gum tissue for testing before the carcass is sent out for incineration.  When Taylor has gone, Sherlock talks to a vet at the facility until closing time at ten about guide dogs she has known and treated in her experience.  He is further convinced that such a dog would never lead its owner straight into traffic. 

He plans to visit the lady in the hospital as soon as the state of her health allows it.  He is also keenly anticipating another word about the precise whereabouts of Sergeant Barrows, who has apparently been staying in hostels and going by the name Jim Barrow.

John comes in just after midnight; he is drowsy and soft at the edges, making far too little sense to be considered anyone’s sixth.  Even so, Sherlock is secretly pleased that he has returned to Baker Street and not to his own flat.  He steers John to bed, kisses his cheek, and goes back to the table in the living room, where he is researching training programs for guide dogs and genetic illnesses of Labradors.  His searches drift to congenital heart valve defects in non-smoking males between 30 and 45 years of age.  

Later, he opens his sketchbook to his drawing of John’s shoulder wound; not surprisingly, he finds he cannot look at it long.  He flips ahead and finishes his drawing of spiraling terns that he’d started in Norfolk.  He imagines John is sober, waiting for him ( _choose and act accordingly --_ ).  He falls asleep on one forearm.  Shortly afterward, Jens’ heavy gray drafting pencil drops through his long fingers onto the tabletop.

***

John is feeling ragged the next day and is initially of no mind to hear Sherlock’s description of the gum tissue that had been harvested from the yellow Labrador's remains the evening before.  He doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke about having ‘hair of the dog’ with his late breakfast, either.  He goes for a shower; when he comes out he still looks unamused by the shafts of light that are breaking through the living room windows and back lighting swarms of paper dust in the room as Sherlock darts around, looking through files.  John watches him:  elegant, faultlessly pressed and dressed, wound up completely. Gorgeous.  “ _Jesus_...” he groans into his palms, at the unfairness of it all.  

“Orthopaedics and Trauma,” Sherlock tells him excitedly from the living room table, stridently slapping his laptop closed, another suggestion that John’s headache is the least welcome thing in the room.

“Yeah?”

“To interview the girl about her guide dog, John.  Euston Road.”

“When.” John is rubbing the lower half of his face a bit and following Sherlock with his tired eyes.

Sherlock approaches him and looks down at him very close.  Viciously close.  “Right now.”

John is starting to understand that he is being punished.  “Go without me?” he asks (by now a sincere request).

“Not a chance.” 

“Dying.”

“Mmm, not dying, now I am sure of it.  Visiting hours are short today, let’s go.”

John growls and goes to put on his coat and shoes.  Sherlock is still grinning behind him as they pile into a cab ( _bound for Trauma_ , thinks John, _how appropriate_ ).


	27. Jim

John visits Sherlock after work the following day; Sherlock has solved the case of Mandy, the not-dead dog. He is inattentively explaining it to John at the living room table.  John is listening with far more emotional involvement, as he had been touched by his conversation in the hospital with Paula, the legally blind victim of the street accident near Earl's Court. Sherlock had passed him the task of questioning her about her dog; John had witnessed her deep attachment to the animal and sorrow, in addition to the trauma of her own injuries.  Sherlock had asked him to steer the conversation a bit and record her talking about Mandy’s ability to do tricks and the most frequent commands she’d used when they were together -- awkward from a moral point of view, though easy enough for John to manage with his mobile rested on his knee.  Sherlock had focused on Paula’s overprotective brother out in the hallway, but John had not heard much of it.  Once he'd filled Sherlock in on Paula's answers and forwarded him the audio file from his phone, the detective had rushed off quickly, chuckling, and they’d not seen each other for the rest of the day. John had continued to nurse his lingering hangover in his own flat; he’d been on call for the hospital later on that night.

As he speaks now, Sherlock is slowly scraping the very last of his pine honey from Norfolk out of its little pot with his finger and eating it.  “Starting from the samples.  The dead dog’s blood had very high ammonia content, high alkaline levels and low potassium.” 

“A metabolic illness, then,” John remarks.  “Liver related?”

“Yes, pointing to canine hepatic encephalopathy.  Which leads to circling, disorientation and bumping into objects when the animal is digesting -- see, she would have just eaten her morning meal before going out with Paula for a walk.  It also leads to seizures, aggression, compulsive scratching around the ears, and potentially a dozen or so other symptoms.  The dog was seriously ill and her behaviour was erratic.  However, that illness does not come on from one day to the next, obviously. So the question was how Paula ended up with the wrong yellow Labrador at her side. Two days ago, on his way to work, Paula’s brother left Mandy at the veterinarian’s to have her teeth cleaned under mild anesthesia.  It is a busy clinic, large staff, hoardes of pets coming through.  The receptionist, who has a yellow Labrador which has just been diagnosed with hepatic encephalopathy and which will need to be put down soon, happens to spy a healthy female dog of similar appearance and age to her own.  And she decides to get clever.  She knows Mandy will not be picked up until evening, so during her lunch hour she brings in her sick pet from the suburbs and makes an exchange; the sick dog goes into the kennel and the partially-sedated Mandy goes out to the receptionist's car. She takes her home later that afternoon.  In the evening, a different receptionist is on duty when Paula’s brother picks up the sick dog. He drops it off at Paula’s and her Mum’s place.   You might ask how it is possible that the brother doesn’t notice it isn’t the same dog.  Chance.  He's tired and distracted. He’s not around Mandy often -- allergies to cat and dog dandruff -- he said as much.  And did you see his hands when we were at the hospital?  A compulsive hand washer who also uses alcohol based disinfectant gels in the meantime -- not likely he'd have looked into the dog’s mouth to check if its teeth were sparkling clean.”  Sherlock’s tongue circles his sticky fingertip and it slides out with a small _pop_.  The corners of John’s mouth curl up involuntarily but he fights them down again.  “In the evening, the dog is subdued and vomits after eating but the family attributes it to the anesthetic.  The next morning, when Paula wants to take Mandy for their walk, her mum has difficulty getting the dog into her harness because it is wholly unaccustomed to wearing one -- you said Paula mentioned her dog's lack of cooperation, which was chalked up to over-excitement. Paula soon leaves the house with a dog prone to harming itself and others. Meanwhile, out in the suburbs, a little girl of seven is being kept from the truth about her sick dog by a spineless mother who thinks that stealing a stranger’s animal is a lesser evil than talking about death.” 

“Seriously endangering the life of a sight impaired woman, no less.”

“Oh, you won’t prove intent there,” Sherlock says, shrugging and lapping absently at the length of his finger.  He does not appear to be doing any of it on purpose, which to John makes it even better to watch.  “She didn’t switch the dogs in order to cause bodily harm to anyone, or Paula in particular.  It was done in complete ignorance.”

 _Complete ignorance, you, what you’re doing to me...._ “Still, a little imagination wouldn’t hurt.  I mean.  Yeah.  I mean, she should have thought that through.  That’s crazy,” John says.

“That’s where a civil case comes in.  Though the brother has already put the whole story on Facebook  and a virtual string up is taking place even as we speak.  Mmmm.”

“Looks like you’ve run out of that pine stuff,” John says, as Sherlock’s tongue flicks over the end of his finger again.  “But, ah -- how did you get Mandy back?”

“That was easy.  Among other things you recorded Paula giving commands.  Sergeant Taylor and I walked past the garden where Mandy was running free with the little girl in the burbs, I played the audio file from my phone, and Mandy approached the fence immediately and responded to several of the commands given in Paula’s voice, even without pairing them with her scent.  We have DNA material of both dogs, CCTV footage of the receptionist with the dogs on the day in question -- she was just bright enough to be completely slipshod about it and make any case for damages a formality.   To make a long story short, Mandy has been reunited with Paula.  The case was absurdly straightforward --“

“That is one of the best stories I’ve heard in ages.  You are -- “ John comes closer and kisses Sherlock’s lips -- by now delightfully sticky.  “Extraordinary.  I’d even thought it was a lark of yours to get the hell out of that pub.”  He kisses Sherlock again.  And again.  “So I’m blogging it later.  You are _killing_ me today.”  John says that jokingly but is disappointed that Sherlock is not returning his kisses.   He goes to the kitchen and starts fiddling with the kettle.

Sherlock is, in fact, well aware of John’s desires (and to be fair, his own) but he is indeed preoccupied; an hour or so before he’d received a signal that Jim is gravely ill.  He is waiting impatiently for confirmation in the form of photographs.  Soon the email arrives; he springs at it and begins clicking through the attachments.  “John,” he says.  “James Barrows is in hospital.  I have his chart.  Most of it.”

“Oh.”  John sets aside a box of tea and comes over.  “Really?  From where?”

“Cleaning staff.”  Sherlock gets up and gives John his laptop and chair.

“Oh, right.”

Sherlock runs a hand through John’s fringe; he heads toward the kitchen to finish brewing the tea that John has just left half-made on the counter top; he texts something short on his phone as he goes and shoves it in his pocket.  John follows him with his eyes for a moment and then looks back at the screen. 

Sherlock’s touch has left him quite uneasy, as unfortunate as that is.

John clicks through the photographs of pages in the chart, some of which are not entirely readable at the edges -- taken with a mobile, in haste.  It is clear to him, however, that they all point to the worst.  Jim’s stomach, bowels and abdominal cavity are all under assault.  _Can’t cut all that out.  Palliative care management and grief counseling.  Five, six months...fuck._

Sherlock puts the tea he’s made in front of John and stands aside.  “Thanks,” John says -- for a number of things at once, though he needs it to be vague now because he would rather not say much aloud.

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly (-- it feels abrupt to John; his own thoughts are heavy and absorbing), “I’ve been asked to have a look at a break-in.  Holborn.  Do you --“ ... _want me to stay?_

“Nah.”  John picks up the tea and clears his throat. _Linda, Mike..fuck, why!_

Sherlock goes downstairs to put on his coat and shoes; when he comes back upstairs he is slipping on his scarf.  “Sure?” he asks.

“Going back to my place after this,” John answers. “I’m on call for a friend tonight, asked for a favour this morning, forgot to tell you, sorry.”

***

23:59

_Goodnight, John.  SH_

A van with 7 people inside flips on the motorway that evening; John will not see Sherlock’s text until mid-morning. 

***

The following afternoon, in turn, John leaves his last four patients to his colleague and meets Sherlock at Charing Cross hospital, where Jim has very recently undergone laparoscopy and an EUS.  Sherlock states that he wants to go in first and John is just sleepy enough that he doesn’t find it out of the ordinary.  Thus Sherlock enters Jim’s hospital room and introduces himself (as a detective representing a friend who is eager to see him), taking the opportunity to make a quick study of the man and figure -- he is nearly 20 pounds thinner than in his photographs and unshaven.   _Has worked as a welder, raised a Catholic, former heavy smoker, bigot, spatial awareness of a dyslexic, colour blind, laser surgery on the right eye, nose broken at least twice, three front most teeth ceramic capped; left (fisted)_ \-- Jim has heard more about Sherlock from the press than from John, and is not pleased that he has been located at all, though as soon as he hears that John Watson has been looking for him, he wants to talk to him straight away.  Sherlock comes out to where John is waiting in the hallway. “I’ll need a word with him when you’re done,” Sherlock says as John goes in, and John nods; he looks edgy but flashes a small smile.  The two ex-soldiers begin reminiscing from the get go; Sherlock paces about the hall a bit; he has reassessed Linda’s quick draw with the scissors. 

“...plonker in Manchester who could walk and talk.  But no worries,” he hears from John.

“Yeah, thought you’d be married with a few ankle-biters by now...”

Sherlock decides to go and pay a visit to a coffee bar nearby in search of a better wi-fi signal.

When he comes back later with a near-empty paper tumbler of coffee in his hand he hears at a distance that the tone of the conversation has changed completely.  He walks quickly to the door and leans an ear to it.  He hears John first.

“--left them, fucking coward!  Should wipe this floor with your arse!” 

“If you ever lay a _hand_ on Mike --” 

Sherlock perceives that John has stood up from his chair. “Check yourself or you won’t get another word out in this life!” John snarls, in a dark tone that Sherlock has heard from him on few occasions -- paired with a gun in his hand.  Sherlock sets his coffee on the floor and quickly considers several eventualities that might lead him to intervene; he hears a door slamming in another hallway and the sound of clogs -- thus one eventuality is about to present itself in the form of a nurse and perhaps security.

“A bleeding _waste_ , is what you are, wanker, sick in the ‘ead,” Jim says to John.

“ _\-- not -- wants a word_ \-- _finished -- “_ (Sherlock cannot make out much of what John is saying now; he has dropped his voice to a dangerously low hiss).

“Don’t wanna meet any cocksucker of yours!” Jim spits.

John suddenly stalks out of the room in a march and slams the door behind him.  Sherlock sees that he is about to go into a full-blown attack, then and there.  A nurse is now hurrying in their direction.  Sherlock grasps John’s arm and shakes him, saying firmly, “Coffee shop.  Right, and right down this hall. Introduce yourself by name.  _Do it_.”   

John still can’t strangle out a word but he nods.  Sherlock lets him go.  He soon disappears around the right corner at the end of the fluorescent-lit hallway.  Sherlock has an exchange with the nurse in apology and sends her away.  He enters the room and takes a seat, next to a pale-faced and bewildered Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows.   

***

John enters what appears to be more of a refreshment area than a full coffee shop, with a few tables scattered about, and tries to collect his thoughts enough to say his own name, as just instructed, when he is within reach of the counter.  Behind it, an attractive young girl with dyed-black hair and a green-blue tattoo of a dragonfly on her left wrist is focused on disassembling and rinsing out parts of a coffee machine.

“He-llo,” he says, clearing his throat. 

She turns around at the sound of him.  Her eyes widen a bit and she smiles -- it is, in fact a succession of several smiles, each wider than the last.  “Oh!  Good afternoon.  How may I help you?”

“Doctor John Watson.”

“Yes!” she says brightly.  “Yes.  Please take a seat wherever you want and I’ll be right with you.”

“Okay,” he says, and looks around.  A few family members are seated around the place with little self-service trays.  He chooses a table near a window and gazes out toward a nearby parking area, willing the twisting in his gut and the knot in his throat to go away in case she wants to talk for some reason.  He realises that his entire back is streaming with sweat.  He wipes at his brows with his fingertips.

Soon the girl comes up to him with a plastic tray in her hands.  “Doctor Watson,” she gushes, “I’m such a huge fan of your blog.”

“Cheers,” he says, as if on autopilot.  “Nice to hear.”

“So.  Okay.  Here you are.  That’s one pekoe with skim milk on the side, apple cake with cranberries and cream on the side, and the Kindle’s mine, that’s _From Russia With Love_ , chapter 12, _A Piece of Cake,_ page one hundred six.  Just leave it on the counter whenever you’re done.  It was a real pleasure to meet you in person, Doctor Watson.”  She backs off with another broad smile and returns to the counter.

“Thank you.” 

John looks down at the tray and after a few seconds he’s afraid he will break down in the middle of that bloody place.  He doesn’t.  But it feels dangerously close. 

He finally persuades his eyes to read for him instead.  And soon he is able to swallow the tea.  And chew on some of the cake. 

***

_Jim wants to talk to you.  Come.  SH_

_Tell him to go fuck himself._

***

After a few minutes Sherlock appears, winks at the girl behind the counter, and slides into the empty chair across from John.  His eyes sweep over the tray between them.  Then he glances out the window and folds his arms.  “Jim wants a word,” he tells John flatly.

“Had enough.” John’s throat is hurting.  He puts the Kindle aside.

“Go talk to Jim.”

“ _What?_   Do you _know_ \--”

“Don’t apply the usual weights and measures.  He’s a dying man.”

“Not going.”

“It matters to Jim.”

“Not my problem what matters to Jim.”

Sherlock exhales impatiently.  “It matters to me.”

John considers that for a moment.  “Shouldn’t.”

“Alone, or with me.  Decide.”

John ignores that. 

“Decide, John.”

Finally he stands up, his jaw stiff.  “Alone.”

Sherlock goes to return the Kindle to the girl; he thanks her quickly and follows an ashen John back down the hallway.  John looks as if he has been punched in the gut.  Repeatedly. 

***

John stands in front of his old friend with his hands clasped tight behind his back, at waist height.  He doesn’t speak.  He fixes a stare at the wall over Jim’s head.

Finally Jim starts.  “Going home to Linda and Mike.”

John nods.  Once.

“Your -- he says that when he went she told him she’ll ‘ave me back.  She’ll ‘ave me.  For the rest.   Shit --”

 _When he went -- ?_ John is still staring straight ahead. 

“Sorry, John.   Sorry.  And cleared it.  All --“  Jim has enormous tears rolling down his face.  He is staring fixedly at the ceiling.  “-- Paid.  They won’t be coming ‘round now.” 

John squeezes his hands open and closed behind his back.

“I still have four or five in me, they say,” Jim continues.

John nods.

“Come see us all sometimes.”

John nods again.  He closes his eyes.

There is a terrible silence.

“Nothing’s changed.  We good, John?”

John nods.  And loses it.  For many reasons, all at once. 

“This shouldn’t be happening, Barrows,” he finally says, quietly.

“Nope,” Jim nods; horrible tears are reaching his neck now. “Come see us all sometimes.”

John puts out his hand, half-blindly, and Jim shakes it. 

John decides to stay for a while.

When John finally comes out of the room, Sherlock is standing in the hallway, against the opposite wall.  To John his expression is indecipherable.  He wants it to be.  

When they get outside the hospital, Sherlock hails a cab and tells John to take it and go home, without specifying which of their flats he has in mind. 

He takes the next cab he can find to Victoria and has a reflective walk through Pimlico ( _‘...a lover does not give a girl a necklace to hide her neck...men did not love Rome because she was great; she was great because they had loved her’_ ).  Soon he has nearly reached the Thames; he carries on to a place he has been wanting to see for some time.  It is a roof garden, brilliant ( _at night_ ), with a fantastic view, designed by Jens ( _when he’d worked more as he wished_ ). 

Imaginative engineering.  The accumulated mass of what Sherlock sees when he emerges from a glass lift onto that roof seems inexplicably weightless (herbs, hedges, roses and heather, young, bent willows, covered and open wooden benches and tables, obese foreign visitors, flocks of schoolchildren, lovers -- their hearts spilling with sentiment as they look at other buildings and carelessly lean over the polished wooden railings to glimpse the artery-like roads below --).  Soft, gravel pathways invite meanderers; near-silent ventilators made into art in metal and wood stand about, covered in vines.  The ground is occasionally broken open, and the design of the paths, gently sloped in places for visual texture, has allowed for glass skylights to be set at angles -- with the effect of creating glass and stone sculptures while allowing rain to drain aside to nourish the plants.  Below the glass, people mill (underfoot) in their office spaces; tourists gape down at them, offering anyone who cares for it a view up their skirts, shorts and nostrils.

Sherlock’s mind is in complete disarray -- the most tiresome state to him and one which has become unpleasantly frequent, of late.  He would gladly stop it; now he sits down on a bench which he has not explicitly chosen; he stares out over the rooftops surrounding him. 

***

_Where are you?  We need to talk_

_Roof garden.  SH_

_Stay there or come home which will it be._

_Staying here.  SH_


	28. Plausible deniability

In another thirty-four minutes, Sherlock hears John’s determined stride behind him, crushing into one of the fine gravel pathways.  He sits down on the bench next to Sherlock, leaving half a foot of space between them at the shoulder.  He is pale and upset; his nostrils are flaring slightly as he breathes.  He has his hands curled over his knees.  “ _Why_ didn’t you take me,” he says.

“Be more specific,” he hears.

“Yeah.  I can do that, yeah.  I’ve been talking to Linda.  Now why in hell didn’t you tell me you were going to meet her in the middle of the night and write all that off yourself, with those _shitbags!_  Alone!  No one to keep your back!"

"Mmm."

_"Why did you go without me!”_

“Went out for a smoke.”

“Bullshit.  Stop this shit.  Why did you do it!  You can’t afford that!”  

Sherlock shrugs. 

“You don’t even know the man!” John exclaims.

Sherlock’s frustration has reached the surface.  He takes his shot. “Oh, you know, a gist is enough to go on, a nightmare, a word...” he remarks, wielding a hand.

“Oh, ho.”  John shakes his head and his tongue flicks over his teeth.  “How -- can you even say that to me.”

“In all sincerity.”

_“For fuck’s sake!”_

“So you do follow!” Sherlock fires back.

“Don’t,” John says.  He looks very hurt, and furious over it. 

John is unaware of the enormous advantage Sherlock has over him in this exchange; at the sight of what he is doing to John, however, Sherlock decides to rein it back.  “Jim told me the circumstances of your injury.  And no, I did _not_ prod him, I assure you, I’d much rather have heard it from you and not complete strangers.”

“Got what you wanted?”

Sherlock is silent.

“Afghanistan has _nothing_ to do with you and me.  It really doesn’t, thank God!” John growls.

“You come back after all of _that_ John, to London, to find your place again, walk into the lab at Bart’s and make a series of _exceedingly imprudent_ choices.  Which have had _everything_ to do with you and me.”

“Okay, I see what you mean.”

_“Variables, John!”_

“I have reasons to wonder about it, too, you know.  The odds that we'd live to meet.”  John sees Sherlock start (very slightly; this time he hasn’t caught his breath as much as lost a moment’s control over his eyes -- disbelief has flickered through them). “I’ll tell you about Afghanistan sometime,” John continues. “And I’ll also have questions.  Sometime.”

“Yes.”

“But not now,” John says.

“No.”

“Yeah.  Enough for now.  Hmm.”

John reaches over and closes Sherlock’s hand in his. 

The effect is nearly instantaneous.  Sherlock’s strained expression intensifies and freezes.  For a moment John is afraid he will draw away and leave.  He is motionless, barely breathing.  His eyes, however, are strangely soft and de-focused. 

 _He looks like a trapped animal who needs its leg freed,_ thinks John, _in severe pain, instincts screaming that he'll get eaten alive, but with a bit of trust and hope that’s telling him to wait quietly and see which it will be -- freedom or death.  Not a trap, you beautiful, loving creature --_

In a moment, John says, “Listen, I don’t care if anyone sees this.”

“ _You do care_ ,” Sherlock says through set teeth.  He looks wildly unhappy.

“No,” John says, “I don’t.”

“You always have.”  

At that John squeezes his eyes shut for a second.  He takes a breath.  “But now I don’t.”

“You’re not gay, John,” Sherlock says.  

Then there is a moment marked only by the sound of John breathing quietly through his nose.

“Sherlock, you’re mine,” he replies.

Sherlock’s throat has closed down. 

“Let go of my hand, if you don’t want it,” John answers, calmly.

Sherlock laces his fingers in John’s, very tightly.

“What happened today,” John says,  “hurt.  But I can take it, so can you.”

Sherlock nods.  Soon John’s hand is beginning to smart.  He lets it smart.

“You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock nods again, slightly.  The sound of his heart in his ears has brought something to his mind.  _A self-winding timepiece, a machine.  Needs living flesh and motion to function.  To have purpose.  A machine -- wound on John’s movements._  

“My heart would stop,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“So would mine,” John says, and carefully pulls his hand free.  “Let’s go home.”

***

Both men are tired and troubled by the events of the day, though not by entirely the same ones.  They have returned to Baker Street without more than a single brief exchange, concerning a decision to go by Tube.

Once they are indoors, the room crackles with tension.  It seems to be affecting Sherlock more; he cannot find his place in the flat and is pacing slowly and distractedly, arms loosely folded, deep in thought.  He is colourless and quiet.  John is concerned that he is getting ill again and finally stops him by the shoulder.

“Is your head hurting?”

“No.”

“Play something for us, will you?” John says, backing off toward the kitchen, which he has decided needs tidying (an easy choice, since that is nearly always the case; he wants something purposeful to do).

Sherlock nods and goes to pick up his violin; he tunes it and begins to play a slow, sweeping fragment from R. Strauss’ _Metamorphosen_.  John doesn’t recognise it as such but finds it incredibly touching and pretty; it is not an accidental choice on Sherlock’s part, by any means (one of his favourites; an elegy to beauty and culture and its destruction in war).  John stays at the entrance to the kitchen and watches, as he has many times before.  He finds he is mesmerised all over again.   _This incredibly talented and complicated being is mine_.  _But what’s really hard to believe,_ he thinks, _is the fact that I have to stand here and consciously remind myself of that,_ _since I can’t even go over there and touch him right now.  What the fuck is wrong with me --_

He goes and plugs the kitchen sink and dumps some dishes into it.  As hot water flows onto them he impatiently squeezes dish liquid over it all; he stares over at Sherlock and then down into the mundane mess of suds and feels discouraged and cold inside.  He finally thrusts a hand into the water, closing it firmly around a knife blade.  He winces and swears as he pulls the offending thing out and throws it aside. 

The pain has cleared his head, however.  

He sucks at the blood springing from the side of his index finger and thinks -- mainly about Sherlock’s response to his taking him by the hand in public.  Sherlock has not overtly given any indication of his affection toward him around anyone else -- the exception having been in Norfolk, at the restaurant, when he had been in such extraordinarily good spirits, joking, eating honey, and John had remarked that people would stare.  _You do care._  It is the same everywhere.  All at once, John understands that the spy who loves him, who is now playing so movingly by feel and memory, standing with his back turned to him, eyes shut, is probably trying his hardest to uphold plausible deniability for him.   _Like you would give an agent to survive interrogation, a breach left, where knowing the whole truth might get you killed, a way to save face when things get ugly, to avoid confrontation, insults. Gardener.  Cocksucker.  Sick in the head.  Jesus!  He heard all that, must have.  I tell my friends, he gives me boundless deniability -- cross purposes.  Or I embarrassed him._

“Sherlock,” John says, wiping his hands on his jeans, blood and all.  He pads into the living room and stands as close as he can without getting hit in the face by a long stroke of the bow.  “Put it down.”

Sherlock stops and sets his violin on the table.  He looks John over (he has smelled the blood on John’s breath), eyes hyper-alert, snapping to his finger and back to his face.  He puts the bow down as well.  His fingers are dusty with colophony and he brushes at them.

“Sorry if what I did embarrassed you, there on the roof,” John says quickly. 

“You didn’t embarrass me.” Sherlock is studying John’s face carefully. 

“No?”

“I only care if you’re affected.  For lack of a better word, I’m trying to avoid _outing_ you.”

And John sees that he had been quite right about the deniability.  He asks, “And if I _out_ you?  To my friends?  If you don’t want me to just say so.”

“You can.  I don’t care what people say about me.”  Sherlock is looking down at John’s finger.  “We might dress that.”

“Yeah.”

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“You planned that conversation with Jim.  It was the reason you went to Egham -- to put yourself on the firing line.  Why?”

“He had a hard time once.  And later, when he had Mike.  Ow, shit.”  John sucks at the cut again, which is still bleeding freely.  “He told me, ‘thank you, for giving me the chance to see this’.  We've said it sometimes.  To each other.  And I wanted to tell him, just, thank you.”  John is having some difficulty continuing that thought; he has just remembered arguing with Sherlock over his drawing.  “It’s a personal thing, between Jim and me.  Do you understand?” 

Sherlock’s eyes are moving over him again.  “But you didn’t have to this time.” 

“Well, I did it.  And I'm not sorry.”   John sighs.  “Now _you_ put yourself on the firing line by taking things into your own hands with those bastards and helping Jim.  We’re not through with that.” 

“John.  I didn’t pay them off for Jim’s sake, or for yours,” Sherlock says, frowning at him.  “They’d threatened the boy.”

 _“Mike!?”_ John bristles immediately.

“Jim thought he was drawing them off by leaving but he clearly didn’t know what I do about his creditors.”

“Meaning?”

“Michael could have been abducted if it had gone on much longer, they’ve done it before.”

“Oh, Christ _.”_

“ -- Difficult to prove causality in court but I know the brothers were behind at least two abductions over outstanding gambling debts in the last four years.  One of them was a sixteen-year-old girl and the other an elderly lady with advanced diabetes.  As I recall, her medications were withheld to add an element of time pressure.  The amounts in question were similar.  If everyone lives happily ever after, all the better.  The point was to act, John, the rest is unimportant now.”

“Sherlock.  You.  Are.  Thank you.  Thank you --“  John has his finger in his mouth again.

“Dress that cut, John?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Do you want me to play anything more?” Sherlock asks.  To him the subject of the debt is closed. 

 John shakes his head and starts walking toward the bathroom, breathing through his nose. “Hmmm.” 

He is tremendously relieved to hear that Sherlock has acted dispassionately where he is concerned and also that Mike has been kept safe.  Sherlock’s dealings make complete sense to him now, and he feels that he’d have done the same if he’d had the knowledge and means.  He worries about the matter of _means_ , however.  He decides to come back to the subject when he has a more specific idea of how he or Linda can help.  He might move back to Baker Street, he thinks, though that requires far more thought and discussion than he is in the mood for just now. 

He cleans and bandages his finger carefully and takes a moment to calm down.  He is beginning to wonder what Sherlock had said to humble Jim, in the time he had been reading Fleming over cake and pekoe. He knows he will probably never hear another word about it. He comes out into the living room and sees that Sherlock is standing by the window, gazing at the street, idly rubbing at the grooves in his left fingertips with his thumb.  John is tired of staying at arm’s length.

He also knows that the first move still belongs to him.

“I need you,” he says to Sherlock, quietly, from the middle of the room, almost as if he were the one offering deniability this time.  “Come.”

“Help you?” Sherlock turns around and looks at John’s hand, at the plaster. “Have you --“

“I need _you_.”

When Sherlock sees John’s expression, he seems about to say something more, but closes his mouth.  He comes and takes his hand.  John kisses him gently on the throat.  And wordlessly leads him to bed.


	29. Mine

Sherlock and John lie facing each other, their heads nearly touching.  While they both want and need to be there, the chaos inside each of the men is still affecting them very much -- and neither feels like talking.  Sherlock’s eyes are shut; he is listening to John’s breathing and the rustle of clothes between them, to the exclusion of the noise in his head.  John is holding one of Sherlock’s hands and running his thumb over it lightly.  He has just kissed one of those (closed) eyes and Sherlock has almost smiled (in his mind’s eye he is trailing the circles drawn against his hand; he thinks about sketching John, the illusion of closeness to his dearest person -- closeness is no longer an illusion -- John sketches those finger tracings, for him.  They are absorbing and warm).  John wants to smooth out everything he can -- pain, nerves, invectives, misunderstandings, misjudgments.  He knows he cannot do much now and it makes him anxious.  He kisses the backs of several of Sherlock’s fingers.  The thought crosses John’s mind that he would kill any man who tried to take all of this away from him.  But there is more that lies behind the violence in what he feels -- another thought, equally commanding, that has been trickling through the deepest recesses in John for a longer time (and given other names).  If he ever explicitly described it, he might compare it to a need to crawl completely inside another person, filling him from inside, taking him over -- he wants everything, as forbidden and painful as it might be, and as volatile and dangerous a man as Sherlock is.  He loves him, to -- madness.  He cannot express it as he wants to so he will not speak of it at all.  He sighs to himself at that conclusion.   

As if to raze John’s internal resolve, Sherlock opens his eyes and is looking deeply into his; he seems to be committing to memory their convoluted colours and the dark expanse of pupil in their centres (John lets him so close; Sherlock still cannot believe it).  John’s warm breath ( _tinged with his blood; his mouth certainly metallic in taste as well --_ ) follows whispered encouragement to accept him and come nearer for a kiss.  Sherlock is fascinated by the warmth of John’s mouth, which has just brushed against his (his entire body shakes inside at the intimacy in it; John knows very well now that the smallest touch is the most engaging, to start -- a sign, a hint, enough to suggest intense pleasure elsewhere). When John  kisses him a bright, opiate stillness spreads inside Sherlock’s mind and finally there is nothing to interfere beyond the shush of John’s breath in his nose and the sigh in his throat ( _unarticulated, a secret_ ), as he takes in and responds to the supple warmth of Sherlock’s mouth.  John’s hair, recently clipped, thick, feels soft and lush in Sherlock’s fingers.  He gently gives John his tongue, which must seem like a timid offering to such a ravenous man, he thinks.  John is eager to take it -- he replies with delicious licks and strokes.  John does taste of blood.  Sherlock is deeply stirred inside by it, though not merely by the taste but also the sounds accompanying their kisses (they seem to blend):  John is sighing and humming.  He needs more.  Sherlock doesn’t recognise it immediately; he is feeling the heaviness of John’s lips and the reverberation of those sounds into his own mouth (it is exquisite to him).  Sherlock runs a hand down John’s back. ( _Clothes._ )  Sherlock wants them thrown aside but he will wait for John; John’s lips and tongue are wandering to his neck and chin; he will certainly want to take them off soon.  John’s lower body is impatient -- he wants to be in motion and his hands are restive, roving along Sherlock’s waist.  His mind is clearly working downwards.  His fingers return; they are more vigorous now, working on Sherlock’s shirt, trousers.  The plaster on his left hand interferes.  ( _Strip off for me, let me watch you, I’ll let you do mine...hmmm, see how I want you._ )  Soon the clothes are gone.  Sherlock takes in the sensations of John’s warm skin (his scarred shoulder at eye level -- _should be kissed hundreds of times_ ) and its musky smoothness ( _tastes fantastic_ ); his cock is wet, pressing intermittently against Sherlock’s leg as they kiss; they are beginning to move, looking for contact, hands straying over muscle and bone, exploring, gently pleasuring, breathing; Sherlock licks at John’s mouth; all of the words he is still so ill at ease with, which feel humiliating and simplistic ( _lewd -- can’t_ ), are plunged into deep kisses, moist, breath-filled, punctuated with small bites.  The slightest sounds emerge where he wants to ask for more. 

John has shifted his body and his warm tongue is pressing at Sherlock’s chest; as he loses contact with John’s mouth he becomes more aware of his own breathing; he is not at ease with the sound of it (revealing), but he wants to see where John will go next -- now his mouth is sinuously working down Sherlock’s sternum.  Again, a loss of command to John; in bed he is a juggernaut, taking him inch by inch, and he cannot stop it.  He wants to -- no, not so -- not _stop_ him, definitely not.  Merely tell him the truth, which might stop him.  It cannot be said ( _\-- vulgar_ ) -- yet it is so badly desired, sometimes, just for a moment:  _take everything you want, I would give you the same, bury myself in you -- No._ Sherlock wants to put his entire body into John’s hand at once; it is slowly ( _torturously_ ) working downward to his cock again:  close, very close -- teasing now in its proximity.  He is left (well teased) for now.  John’s hand continues where he’d been kissing Sherlock’s stomach; he is back; their mouths are joined at the tongue.  Again, Sherlock has all but forgotten that he has hands of his own; as soon as he begins running his quick fingers over John’s arse he feels John’s tense groan in his entire mouth; John seems to have gathered energy from his touch and grasps Sherlock’s hip in his hand, pulling him closer, so that their cocks are nearly touching.  Nearly.  Sherlock pulls back a bit and looks at him, eyes glittering.  “Your shaving kit,” he says.

John pauses and gapes at him, his mouth trying to form an answer.  He smiles instead, and pulls himself up out of bed, holding Sherlock’s eyes predatorily for a moment as he retreats from the room, giving Sherlock a very enticing view of his entire body -- lean, hot, determined (Sherlock feels like biting into something as he goes).  John is back in a moment with a small black travel bag in his fist.  “You knew,” he murmurs, tossing it down on the nightstand, then leaning down and kissing Sherlock’s lower lip (his favourite by now), once.  “How...”

“Nicked your razor in Norfolk,” Sherlock says, staring at John ( _amazing_ ), whose cock is so tense and whose unwavering gaze is fixed on him as he settles back in his place at his side, this time with his face level with Sherlock’s stomach, giving himself to his lover to admire, touch, and -- he watches as Sherlock runs his fingers over him.  Sherlock is listening as John sighs and groans to himself; he waits; then he feels John’s warm lips and tongue closing over his glans; he takes John in his hand, running his fingers down his entire length; John wants much more, he is asking for it openly now -- pressure, tongue, suction, friction; he works his tongue over Sherlock, grasping at him, rubbing his hands over him, telling him let go, to enjoy  himself, asking how much.  It is far too much -- Sherlock soon tells him to stop.  John groans in protest, and shifts his body so he can kiss Sherlock’s mouth again; John is breathing heavily now; Sherlock lets go of him and pushes his tongue into his mouth; he takes advantage of John’s concentration on his lips.  He has seen what he wants on the nightstand behind John’s head and reaches for it.  When he takes John’s cock again the warm slickness of his fingers makes John swear against Sherlock’s kisses; Sherlock smiles and runs his hands over John and himself.  He decides to try and talk a bit.  For John.  “John,” he purrs against his ear, “move for us, you know how.”  John growls into Sherlock’s neck and leads with long, rhythmic, grinding thrusts, their cocks pressed together in Sherlock’s hands, throbbing ( _Christ, oh Christ, so hot..._ ) bring them to the edge, together.  Sherlock buries his head against John’s shoulder and grinds his teeth, moaning near the end in spite of wanting badly to stay silent; John is kissing Sherlock’s neck, hissing and groaning, “Love you -- you’ve no idea, what you are to me, oh God, you’ve no idea, how, I love you.”

“I love you, John,” Sherlock tells John quietly against his cheek.

And John nearly crushes him in his arms.  “You’re mine,” he says after some time.  “Understand?”

Sherlock shifts himself away a bit and looks evenly at John.  “And you’re mine,” he states, though as those words leave him he already feels quite unsound inside -- the noise is beginning to seep back in.  

But that only lasts until John kisses him and says, with a warm smile, “Yeah, I am. Come here.” 


	30. How it looks

“Mmm.  John.”

The phone has roused Sherlock from a nap on the sofa.

“Sleeping?  Sorry.”  John is on his lunch hour, which he has finally managed to take at nearly two o’clock in the afternoon.  He is walking about his office with a cup of tea in one hand, stretching his back while he talks on the phone.

“All right.” Sherlock pushes his hair off his face and rubs his eyes.

“Willing to see a client, in about an hour?”  John asks.

“Probably not.”

“Make an exception?”

“Seen two this morning.  You hear the state they’ve left me in, one more --” Sherlock yawns.

“One of my patients would like to pop by.  Having problems with a neighbour.  Will you talk to him?  Old Eastern European bloke, really a character.  He tames pigeons, apparently.”

“Nnngh...”

“You might pick his brains a bit,” John says.

“And what might I expect to pick out of his brains?”

“Honey.”

“Sorry?”

“He said he kept bees for like, more than thirty years.  Quite the expert.  Now he trains pigeons on his balcony.  And has problems with a neighbour.”

“Tell him he is most welcome,” Sherlock says, straightening and smiling a bit.

“Ha, thought so.  I’ll let him know. His name is Jozef Kováč.  And how’re you?”

 _Jozef K._   “Wide awake.”

“Missed you this morning.  And last night.  I’ll come see you if you’re in just after six.”

“Be my guest.”

“Bringing us some dinner, then, as your guest?”

“Mmm, thank you, John.”

***

 _Trägst du heute deine nervige Uhr?_ _SH  *_

_Doch, ich trage sie.  Warum :)?  Alex_

_Mein tiefes Mitgefühl.  SH_

_Du bist ja wirklich zu nett.  Alex_

***

John comes in that evening to find Sherlock curled sideways in his armchair with a book in his hands; his eyes dart over the pages in front of him several more times before he lowers it into his lap and smiles at John,  who comes and leans over him -- kissing that smile a few times, feeling it transform into something far softer.  And far warmer.  “Not sleeping,” John says, “hmmm, good start.”

“No, not sleeping,” Sherlock answers.

“Come, let’s have some dinner.”

“Not interested.”

“Come and tell me about Mr. Kováč.  Funny old bugger, isn’t he.”

Sherlock pulls himself out of his armchair and stretches with a sigh. 

_Dressing gown double knotted.  Bloody flirt._

“Quite the subversive,” Sherlock remarks.

They head for the kitchen.

“Oh, really?  That I didn’t know.”

“Only criminal from the perspective of the government at the time.  Trained messenger pigeons for the underground and to supply information to friends in prison.  But you were right about him, he is a walking trove of knowledge about honey production, and from what he said it sounds like he made most of his equipment himself.  Apparently one doesn’t need much.”

“And what about Mr. Kováč’s neighbour?”

“Oh, yes.  We have plans for him,” Sherlock says enigmatically, watching John open a bag and pull out several paper cartons. 

“Yeah.  You had a good talk then?”

Sherlock nods.  “So how was work today?” he asks.  He finally sets down the dusty looking paperback he’s been clutching with one thumb hooked deep into the middle; its splayed cover has a mid-century print of a honeycomb motif in the centre.  John cocks his head to the side and looks _(Leitfaden einer zeitgemässen Bienenzucht --?_   _Whatever, should have paid more attention in middle school..._. _)_

“Work was work,” John answers.  “A lot of stomach flu, going round schools, people coming back from holidays bringing nasty things with them.  Viruses.  How was yours?”

“Oh, the thefts were committed by the electrician’s _sister_ , set him up, oh -- and the cockatiel had indeed been trained to turn on the gas.  It’s a pity you didn’t see it.  The others had cheating spouses, not much I could add.”

“I believe you.  I have ravioli and salads, get me some plates.”

“Apparently Mr. Kováč has had Bulgarian and Turkish strains.”

“Talking about viruses or bees now?  Plates, Sherlock.”

Sherlock locates two plates in acceptable condition and puts them in front of John, who begins portioning out food for them.

“Stingless bees.  He tended them mostly without steam and they didn’t sting, imagine. Less hardy to bacteria and viruses, but non-aggressive, so he didn’t need a mask, or gloves.”

“So they crawl over you.  Right.  This isn’t finger food,” John says, pulling the nearest chair closer and sitting down, “unless for some reason you want it to be.” 

Sherlock digs out forks and knives and continues, handing them to John, “In Slovakia, he insulated the hives and their activity dropped but they weren’t affected adversely by the cold any more than other strains.”

“Sit, would you?  So you got on all right, I see, you had a good afternoon.”

“Yes.”

“Brought me homemade pickles last Christmas, charming wife, too.  Anything else on?”

“Probably.”  Sherlock has a manic, pleased grin on his face. 

John is glad to see it.  _He looks so amazing,_ thinks John, smiling.  _Happy._

“You might consider moving back,” Sherlock says suddenly, as if it were an aside, which it certainly is not, to either of them.

John takes a bite of ravioli and chews it reflectively.  “I do consider it,” he replies. “And I know your finances aren’t exactly -- “

“No, not because of the rent.  That’s a temporary concern.  Not even a concern now, in fact.  Think it through.”

“I will.”

They eat quietly. 

“I’ll have a small job to do, in Europe,” Sherlock says finally.  His plate is covered in tiny squares of ravioli, which he has been cutting with focused exactitude and eating in blocks of four.   

“For Mycroft?” John’s fork hovers over his plate.  He has straightened a bit in his chair.

 _Not excited, not pleased.  Interesting._   “Yes,” Sherlock replies.

“Europe -- but not MI6, then?”

“No, not strictly speaking.  Negotiations, let’s say.”

“Where in Europe.”

“Vienna or Budapest, most likely Vienna.”

“Any Austrian wine involved?” John asks. 

“Obviously.”

“Coming with you.”

“One of my conditions for accepting,” Sherlock smiles.

John is going warm inside now.  “When?”

“Waiting for confirmation from my brother.  Not sure yet.”

“Visiting your mousey friend?” John asks.

“My friend.”  Sherlock looks at him.  “Why _‘mousey’_.”

“Timid, gone gray at the ears?”

“Mmmm.  Interesting you would say that."

“Shut up.”

“No.  That you find him timid.  I didn’t.”  Sherlock raises one of his eyebrows evocatively. “Though technically I did not kiss him.”

“Shut _up_.”  John spears some salad with annoyance.  “And I assume you still write to each other.”

“Of course.”

“Of course you write, or, of course I assume you do?”

“Both.”

Sherlock is, in fact, planning to meet Alex’s friend (the close-shorn lady in gray from the Swan’s Son cafe, with whom Alex has left the keys to his flat) in several days’ time, to borrow a few of his books.  He does not plan to explain that to John, whose eyes have gone dark. 

“Do _not_ play with me,” John is muttering, as he jabs his fork in the direction of Sherlock’s sternum.

“I will,” Sherlock says, leaning forward on his elbows.  “On a night train, to Vienna.”

“What?”

“No point in flying, it would be a complete waste of time.”

“Oh God, yes.”

Sherlock smiles smugly.  “So when will you move back, you haven’t answered me.”

“The agreement expires in five months and then it’ll be time to think about what to do next,” John says.

The smile drops away and Sherlock glares at him. 

“That’s how it looks,” John adds.  “What.”

_“What to do next?”_

“Yeah.”

“That’s how it _looks_?”

John sees that Sherlock’s fingers are going white around the silverware he is holding.  He might even backpedal a bit, if he knew which point to start from.  “Sherlock,” he says, clearing his throat.

“How should I understand that,” Sherlock says, in a deep voice that John distrusts the sound of immediately.

“Understand it how you want to.”

“Don’t be absurd, this isn’t _modern art,_ for God’s sake.”

“Look.  I don’t feel like moving back here if it means taking on the roles of housekeeper, cook, and supplier.” (John taps the side of his plate with the butt of his fork.) “And that lot, full time.”

“You said you consider moving back here.”

“Because I do.  In spite of all that.  And you, in the meantime, could consider what might be holding me off.”

Sherlock very nearly flings his plate against the wall; that, however, would punctuate John’s remark all too aptly.  _Coercion --_ Sherlock thinks.  That disgusts him and brings him back to the desire to wreck everything in front of him.  Excluding John, he decides, excluding John.  He sniffs.  And finds he feels quite hurt.   

“Someone else might do it, then,” Sherlock says, and watches John process that in two predictable ways.  “Housekeeping,” he adds, disambiguating before John can add a third interpretation to his reading of Sherlock’s black expression. “Hire help, perhaps, I’ve thought of it.” 

 _As an honourable man, you are obliged to work on it --_  

John is finishing the last of his salad, circling several leaves over a spot of vinaigrette with his fork.  “I can walk to work from my flat,” John says.  “It takes almost forty minutes to commute from here in the morning, and when I’m on call --”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, standing up. “Excuse me, I need --”

“No, we’re talking about this.”

“About how spending X-fewer minutes with me some mornings would be more than you can bear -- generous of you.  Or was it about how implausible it is that during all these years without you, my flat still hasn’t rotted from the inside out --”

John holds out his hand.  “Enough,” he says.  “All right?  I didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.” 

(Sherlock doesn’t respond; he gazes in the direction of the living room windows.)

“I told you I’ll consider it, and I want to leave it there for now.”

“Linda will be here shortly,” Sherlock remarks.

“Linda?” John says, genuinely surprised.

“Wanted to see you, and me.  Passing through on her way to work tonight in Virginia Water, Jim was discharged today,” Sherlock says, and heads for the bathroom, untying and shrugging his dressing gown off his shoulders as he goes; regrettably, he is fully dressed.

John growls a bit to himself as he starts clearing off the table; soon the doorbell rings, so he trots down the stairs to let in Linda.  He has no idea what either of them should say, nor how Sherlock might behave toward her now.  And then there is the matter of repaying him, somehow.  He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

_____________

*   _German texts:_

Are you wearing your annoying watch today?  SH

Indeed, I am wearing it. Why :)?  Alex

My deepest sympathies.  SH

You are really far too kind.  Alex


	31. Compensation in several acts

Linda and John are seated on the sofa talking in low tones about Jim’s prognosis and details from his tests and discharge papers from the hospital.  In a few minutes, Sherlock makes his entrance into the living room; whether or not he intended it to be an entrance, as such, he looks faultless -- particularly to John, who cannot take his eyes off of him.  He has washed up after dinner, combed back his mad hair and changed into a white shirt.  Linda is openly staring at him, as well.  Sherlock himself seems completely focused on something he is assembling in his own mind and his obliviousness to their keen attention only confuses Linda and turns on John.  Sherlock greets Linda cursorily, as if they had just got off the phone and had met on the street to continue their conversation in person.  He hardly looks at John.   Gradually, John begins to notice the lack of eye contact.

Sherlock is standing in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back (precisely where John would like to be running his hand over him --).  John blinks away that idea and tries to focus as Sherlock takes a breath and starts speaking to them both.

“Loyalty is irrational, be it arbitrary, accidental, or carefully considered,” he says, hurriedly.  “Particularly when viewed for its utilitarian properties, though even _those_ are of little use beyond their sentimental weight.”

 _Where is this going to go, and is this aimed at me?_ John is thinking.  He has the urge to put a reassuring arm around Linda, so he does.  The two of them look picturesquely up at Sherlock, whose eyes are sparking with emotion, even as his voice sounds very even.  He continues at the same pace.

“Decisions made out of loyalty toward _one_ may endanger the lives and well-being of many others.  Loyalty, because of its irrationality, can also be a motivator for heinous crimes.  However, there may be conflicting states of loyalty in one individual.  None of which are rational.  And which might no longer be seen as loyalty at all, but as something self-serving.  Or, self-harming.”

“Sherlock,” John breaks in, “you’re really losing us here.”

“Linda,” Sherlock says, turning his full focus on her.  John feels her catch her breath a bit.  “I regard you as exceptionally loyal.  You have chosen loyalty where there is little chance of regard, in return.  And you are capable of skirting unavoidable pain with great care --”

“My job’s not pointless, if that’s what you’re trying to say,” Linda says, trying to grasp his point.  “Quite the opposite.  Someone has to do it.”

“I don’t deny that your work is of value.  I was referring to Jim,” Sherlock tells her.

“What the hell,” John says.  “Tell her you’re sorry.”

Sherlock shoots him a look that is brutally unapologetic.  John shuts his mouth in spite of himself.

“-- With whom you lived for more than seven years though he offered you little in the way of financial or emotional stability.  More recently, he openly saw other women, flaunted the fact and harmed you physically -- _do not deny it,_ he admitted it to me himself.  And he will not hurt you again, I’ve made sure of that.”   

_“What the fuck is he talking about?”_ John hisses at Linda.  “Are you mad?” he demands of Sherlock.

“John,” she says, waving at him to be quiet.

 “And I expect,” Sherlock states, ignoring John, “that if it happens again, you will tell John or me, straight away.”

“Nobody will hurt her,” John interrupts.

“A loyal lover, an abuser’s prize,” Sherlock snaps at him, piercingly. 

“Stop,” John growls, pulling Linda closer.  “Sorry, I don’t know what’s got into him.  Why are you upsetting her!”

“Do you deny that there are patterns of abuse?  Think of the cases we’ve seen.  And do you believe she’ll stay alone for the rest of her life?”

“Christ,” John says, glaring at Sherlock. “Why the _hell_ can’t you ever be nice when you see people are in pain?  Just spare them -- _yourself?”_

Sherlock goes stiff at that but he doesn’t answer; John immediately regrets what he’s said and squeezes his teeth together.  He shakes his head.

 “John,” Linda says, “look, he’s just realistic.  At least he doesn’t try to make things look fluffy and nice when you and I both know damned well it’s all going to _hell_.  And it doesn’t mean I don’t love Jim to the death.”  She is crying now.  “Sherlock, Jim told me what you said, and we’ve already talked about it, okay?  John, you know how he is.  You know what he’s really like.  Sherlock’s telling the truth, it wasn’t all roses between us, but you know what Jim really is.  Right?”

 Sherlock looks at John now, with an expression of complete neutrality.  “I will be brief.  This concerns you both.”  His eyes flick back over to Linda.  “Calm yourself, Linda.  Listen to me.  I do _not_ expect you to repay me.  No.  Don’t talk.  Linda, I have considered your resources and potential carefully.”

“No, no.“ John is shaking his head again.  “Linda and I can both pay it back, gradually --”

“I’m selling my car,” Linda croaks, “I can give you about two thousand to start.”

“Don’t talk.  You were looking at job announcements in greater London just before you tried to skewer my neck on your scissors,” Sherlock says. “Don’t look so surprised, Linda, I checked your browser history.”

(John looks surprised, because he’d not heard the part about the scissors.)

“John and several of his colleagues plan to open a private clinic in a year or so.  And I do not doubt that a loyal friend, who is also a highly motivated, competent nurse -- with extensive experience in the care of geriatric and hospice patients -- would be of great assistance in planning and building his practice.  You might devote some of your time and energy to helping him.  Think of it a form of repayment that your resources and potential allow, an opportunity for your professional growth, and indispensable support for John, whom, as you know, I regard as my partner, and whose interests and happiness are closely allied to my own.”

John and Linda are both gaping at him; John additionally feels like cracking his own head against a hard surface; Linda cannot believe her ears and is no longer crying, out of complete shock.

“You might offer her some ravioli and see her to Waterloo, John,” Sherlock says.  “You will excuse me.  Linda,”  he nods to her and turns away.

And in a flash he is already downstairs, putting on his coat and shoes; he slips out of the house, leaving John very stressed, the signs of which Linda recognises all too well. 

She is also shaken.  They go to the kitchen and Linda helps John make some tea.  Linda says she doesn’t have time to stay and eat the ravioli so John says he’ll wrap it up for her to take along.

“But as far as his idea goes,” she is saying, “even if it’s volunteering, John, I can do that, if it would help you out. I didn’t know you were thinking about a private practice.  That’s great news.”

“Yeah.  Just starting to put it all together.  But, no, really, if you decide you want to join us, I can’t imagine a better person.  I’ll talk to them.”

“Yeah.  Right now I’ll need to be there for Jim and we’ll think about something else when it’s time, later on, so, we’ll come back to it another time, okay?  Yeah.”

 _Sherlock would just spit it out but we dance around it.  Death._ “Okay, here,” John says.  He’s been fumbling with foil.  “Ravioli.”

“Thanks, it’s going to be a long night.  I’m knackered.  I didn’t sleep at all.”

“They’re good, warm them up -- Jesus.  I didn’t know he was planning all that.  I’d no idea.  Sometimes he comes out with stuff and you don’t know what the hell’s going on until you see his back, and see, he’s gone out.”

“But look.  I owe him _everything_ I’ve got now.  Everything.  And you don’t go and gob off at him for my sake, you’re not helping anyone out, doing that.”

“Yeah,” John says.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Even if he’s sort of hard to talk to, I mean, John, seriously, what are you doing?”

“Yeah.”

“Call and ask him to come back, I think you hurt his feelings.”

“He’s not one to be asked.”

“You can shoot off your mouth but you can’t even make a bloody call.  You’re all the same, for Christ’s sake,” Linda remarks with a smirk. 

She pulls out her phone and shows John that she is calling Sherlock.

“Hey now,” John says, feeling like a teenager whose friend wants to humiliate him over a girl from class.  He is gesturing at her to hang up.  “ _This is not a good idea_.”

Linda rolls her eyes.  “Hi, Sherlock,” she says amiably, smiling at John, who is making a fist on the table. “Hi.  Uhm, I didn’t get a chance to say thank you.  So, thank you _very_ much, and also for your idea.  We’re talking it over now.  I think John and I might be able to make it work someday.”  She raises her eyebrows and shrugs at John.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  We’ll see, but it gives me something to think about for the future.  And that helps.  Uhm, look, we’ll be heading for the station now, are you coming back soon?  Oh, okay.”  She drops her voice and whispers into the receiver,  “ _Listen_ , John’s _really_ upset that you left, you should _come home_.”  She sticks out her tongue at John.  “He’s too bolshie to call and apologise, you know how he is.  Bloody officer’s complex.  Yeah, exactly.  But he’s stark raving _mad_ about you, you are a lucky man.  He _adores_ you, Sherlock.”  John claps his hands over his forehead.  “Okay, okay, same to you, good night.”  She rings off.  “What?”

“You -- are nutters -- Just.  Jesus.” John is rubbing his brows, which he feels have broken out in a cold sweat.

“But he’ll be here when you come home from Waterloo.”

Linda.  Lioness, puzzle piece.

Prophetess.

***

Just over an hour later, when John returns to Baker Street from Waterloo station, he finds Sherlock seated at the living room table, typing on his laptop as though nothing whatsoever had happened.  And while John is glad to see him, he also sees aloofness and reserve.

“Hey,” John says, approaching him from behind and putting his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.  “I’m so sorry.  Thank you for what you’re doing.”

“Okay.”

“I lost it.  I didn’t understand what you were getting at.”

“Okay.”

“That’s an excellent idea you’ve had.” John rubs his nose against against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Merely attempting to find an optimal solution given her resources,” Sherlock answers, still very much in the mode of speech he’d adopted earlier -- rapid, as if to get it over with. 

“What you call ‘merely attempting’ is more than most men will ever achieve, at the greatest points in their bloody lives.  How do you always do these things.  It never occurred to me to ask her,” John says all at once.

Sherlock finally turns and looks at him.  “You would have eventually.  You think of her in terms of Jim,” he says, a shade accusatorily.

“True enough,” John says, taking a chair and sitting very close to Sherlock.  “Can we talk?”

“I know what keeps you from wanting to live here.  As well as what you would have me ‘spare’ others from.  Nothing more to say there.”

“If you spared me yourself, I wouldn’t have anything.  Understand?”

Sherlock looks very tense.  John pulls him closer by the sleeve and kisses him.

“You think about me.  Thank you for always thinking, about me.  I’m such an idiot,” John says, against Sherlock’s lips.

“Never.”

“I love you -- to madness,” John says.  “And I’ve gone and wrecked things.  Again.  Do you realise. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to tear you to pieces.  Shred you apart.  Do you understand?  And I can’t stop it.  I might demand a lot from you.  Someday.  Okay?”

“I feel the same,” Sherlock says, and stares deep into John’s eyes.  “Ecstasy.  Destructive ecstasy.  I understand you perfectly.”

“Yeah.  And if you ever wonder why I love you madly, that’s one big reason why, right there.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“I’d kill --“

“So would I.”

“Oh, I know,” John says.

“I love you with all my heart,” Sherlock says.

“Have you any idea how much I love you?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.”

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock says, holding John’s gaze, and standing up from his chair. 

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” John says, standing and wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist, “for years.”


	32. Afterglow

_I lost myself completely.  Again.  And didn’t mind._

_Under my fingers, John.  Nearly asleep._

_The wetness of John’s mouth.  His tongue, sweeping over me, circling me, mercilessly tracing mad paths over me, mapping me._

_Warm.  But also fierce, filled with sounds of his impatience, possessive desire, neediness, and his want to give, share, have me._

_He talks.  Tells me how it feels to be touched.  How he loves me. Madman._

_His mad kisses are -- expressions of him, often deep, long and nearly metrical, in rhythm with his entire body. Hypnotic in that._

_Easy to return to in idle moments._

_He must know that I do.  When he is away.  It is enough to close my eyes and breathe.  And I can feel him._

_The pleasure of him._

_Not wholly in the pulse and relief of orgasm, but most intense in the moments before it -- just as it is setting upon me -- when alternating states of burning and freezing have seeped into every cell of my body._

_Moiling there, very briefly._

_Then the current, which takes a form like a low wave of sound.  Vibrates through the nerves.  While the tremour in it is still weak and subdued, the bliss in it is gentle and soft.  Organic, like the sound of John’s br_ e _athing as it is gradually reshaping itself into sharper arrow-like bursts -- fascinating._

_Warm.  I have his skin for the tasting, close.  And I can taste it at will -- he lets me._

_His sound as he talks quietly against my neck traverses through every inch of my skin.  He loves to be stroked and petted until he is wet and trembling there.  He grasps at me.  The pressure of his fingers on me.  His hands are warm and strong._

_The first burst of pleasure comes from his sound as it slowly reaches my heart._

_It is broken into by -- his heat, spreading through me wherever his skin touches mine.  It reaches my heart and disperses, pushing the sound of him aside.  Nearly._

_Then -- the moment of deep chaos before the cells realign and begin to burn._

_And the next -- the next to last -- as my eyes close (cannot stop it) and the mind falls silent._

_There is only the brightness.  Electric brightness.  And release._

_I would kiss him again now, suck him and lick him again -- taste him -- could wake him --_

_Won’t wake him.  No._

_Tomorrow -- I will have him when he is soft and slow, smiling and half-confused with sleep._

_Delightful in his initial confusion.  His first sounds of pleasure and desire.  Vibrating through my nerves._

_Beautiful John._  


	33. Not only Croydon

John and Sherlock are standing with Lestrade in a flat where a pensioner had ended his own life the night before.  The body has been removed.  John is standing with his arms folded, looking around at the walls, which are covered in textured mauve wallpaper with nauseating concentric circles and off-kilter checkers.   Carefully designed to agitate the casual viewer, he thinks.

“So, suicide,” Lestrade is saying to them.  “Arthur Georgeston, found dead by his daughter earlier this morning when she dropped by on her way to the airport. Lives in France.  He was sixty-seven years of age, married, just the one daughter.  He left this.”  Lestrade holds up a note in a plastic baggie.  “Any idea what it might be about?”

_Forgive me for leaving you there Angela_

Sherlock glances at it.

 _Dusty biro, alcohol, agitation, losing strength in the hand, no punctuation, a plea, a last-minute confession?  Leaving her -- where?  Not leaving her behind, now, but leaving her -- there.  Somewhere, closed? Somewhere --_   “Who is Angela?”  Sherlock asks, and begins pacing quickly through the dead man’s flat with Lestrade and John behind him, poking his head into all the rooms.  He looks through the bathroom cupboards and squints at the bathtub.  Shakes his head.  He walks around the bedroom, surveying the floor, furnishings, and walls.  He opens the wardrobe and peeks into it.

“Angela is his second wife.  She’s been away visiting family and Georgeston’s daughter is calling around right now to find her and notify her about what’s happened.  Apparently, he’s been depressed lately.  Started drinking.  The daughter wanted to take him in for treatment but he offed himself with sleeping pills and whiskey first,” Lestrade says.  “He was at the kitchen table.”

“Obviously.  Anniversary of Angela’s death, presumably,” Sherlock mutters, his eyes flicking around the kitchen.  There are a few old photographs on the wall above the table and he leans in and looks at one of them.

“Death?” John says.

“No.  Angela’s his _second_ wife,” Lestrade repeats.  “No children of her own.  From what Georgeston’s daughter says, his _first_ wife, her mum, died of heart failure at about age 35.”

“What type of heart failure?  Mitral valve illness?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

“How would I know?  She died, and he remarried like, fifteen years ago.”

“Why are you asking about heart disease again?” John asks Sherlock, looking him over.

Sherlock shrugs.  “Could be relevant.”

Lestrade looks at them with some confusion. “Look, what are we supposed to make of this note.”

“He didn’t even write anything for his daughter,” John says, mostly to himself.

Sherlock sighs impatiently.  And turns to Lestrade.  “He didn’t go off anywhere, he doesn’t have another partner.  Look.  It’s classic.  Even you have to see it.  One half of the bed is more worn than the other.  His effects are only on the worn side.  There are no women’s products in the bathroom.  No women’s clothes in the laundry, no sign of her clothes having been touched for months in her wardrobe.  There is dust on the shoulders of her overcoat.  Wasn’t worn in season.  The kitchen is a pigsty.  No sign of a woman’s hand in the entire place, for around a year -- judging by the build-up of mineral deposits and grime.  Really, what retired housewife from _that_ generation would tolerate _that_ amount of lime scale?  Probably he talked to the neighbours and his daughter as if she was around, but they didn’t ever actually see or hear her.  Ask them if they’ve seen her with their own eyes, or just took his word for it that she was abroad, with a friend, a sister, or a cousin, anywhere but home.  Maintaining the fiction that she was here -- a typical ruse, it happens all the time.”

“What would he do that for?” Lestrade asks.  “What do you think he did?”

“Check his bank statements.  I’d be willing to bet she hasn’t used her cards in a year, but that her retirement checks are still flowing into their shared bank account.  Forgive him for leaving her?  She’s dead.  The only question is, where is her body now?”

“Wow,” John says, with unmistakable admiration in his eyes.  “Amazing.”

“What!” Lestrade says.  “So we’re looking for a body?”

“Guilt and shame led to depression and then drove him to take his life.  He didn’t have the courage to come forward and report her death long after the fact and admit to fraud.  I think we’re finished here.  John?”

***

There is a dark utility area off one end of the dingy hallway and as they make to leave, John pulls Sherlock the other way and marches him into it, backing him against the wall near a large furnace.  He bears down on Sherlock’s lips with a violence that initially surprises both of them;  Sherlock’s head hits an industrial switch box; he winces.  John is silencing Sherlock’s next words under the sheer force of his mouth.  “You drive me _mad_.  Absolutely _insane_ ,” he finally hisses.  He is already breathing heavily.

“You too,” Sherlock barely manages to say; John has thrusted his tongue against his again. 

Sherlock hears Lestrade’s and the other officer’s footsteps as they shuffle out and disappear down the stairs a few yards away.  He freezes momentarily, dismayed, though he sees that John finds it even sexier that they are nearby.

“You are brilliant,” John says.  “Always.”

“Mmm, John --“ Sherlock’s head is aching now but he is about to decide that it isn’t particularly important.  John’s mouth is hot and demanding.  Sherlock is losing feeling in his knees as John runs his hands firmly over his back.

“Not only Croydon,” John growls between licks.  “It wasn’t just Croydon.”

“No --” Sherlock breathes into his mouth.  “-- other places too --”

“A lot of times.  Hmmm?”

“Almost always,” Sherlock groans, as John’s palm starts wandering over him; it feels far too good to ask him to stop.  Though he should.  He will try.  “John --”

“Like right now,” John says.  He is unpityingly -- _smiling_.  He is running his palm in circles over the ridge of Sherlock’s cock and licking his lips. 

“Should -- stop doing that,” Sherlock says, still trying to be decent.   _(Decency?  Is it relevant?)_

“Yeah?” John says, stroking Sherlock’s arse lightly with his other hand.  “And start something else?”

“Mmm -- they’ll see --”

“They’ll drive off in a minute.  Hmmm.  Get you off?”

_“John --”_

“Let’s do it.”

“Mmmm...not -- here -- “

“So jam it for us,” John says, nodding in the direction of an elevator down the hall.

“Camera --?”

“Find the blind spot.”

“Our flat.”  _He looks utterly mad,_ thinks Sherlock.  _I love him with all my heart._  “Oh!”  Sherlock says suddenly, and scans the hallway thoughtfully.  “One more up, three...four over,” he says suddenly, whipping his coat about him.  He takes John by the arm conspiratorially and heads for the staircase.

“Where are we going?”  John asks, as they ascend one more flight together.

“Vacancy.  Sun-faded hand-lettered ‘for let’ sign, did you see it when we arrived?”

“I _love_ the way your mind works, have I ever told you that?”

“Not in those precise words, no.”

“My mistake.  You are bloody amazing.”

“Haven’t got in yet,” Sherlock says obscurely; he is counting doors. 

He approaches one and pulls what looks like a slim glasses case out of his coat, selecting two metal jimmies from it and poking them into the door lock with a grin.  Soon it clicks aside.  “Dull,” he mutters to himself, though in fact he is beaming; he shoves the tools back into his pocket.  He turns to John.  “You first,” he says, and leans in to bite John’s lower lip gently. “And, you first.”

“God.  You woke me up like that this morning, you’ve been asking for it.” 

“Mmm -- yes, I have.“ Sherlock kisses John’s jaw as John palms him in his trousers again.

And he and John nearly fall on each other as they push open the door -- but in a moment, they have both become aware of exactly the same thing. 

“Oh! _Oh fuck_ ,” John says, covering his mouth and nose with his hand. 

Sherlock pushes him back out through the door and closes it quickly behind them.  He takes out his phone.  “Yeah, it’s me,” he says in a moment, though he is completely out of breath, “still in the vicinity?  Good.  We have the wife.  No, no.  Mummified.  The floor just above.” 

***

While they are waiting for Lestrade and forensics to arrive, John and Sherlock settle in at the top of the infernal stairwell, thighs pressed close, trying to calm themselves.

“Yup, popped in for a shag.  And there she was.  Honestly, how do we explain how we found her?” John asks, gritting his teeth.

“My sixth sense.” Sherlock starts snickering.

“Right.  Your sixth sense that wanted to get off in someone’s vacant flat,” John mutters.  “Still does.  Just not in that one...fuck.” 

“Language, John --“  Sherlock is laughing harder now; soon his entire chest is shaking and tears are filling his eyes. 

“Jesus, Sherlock!”  In a moment, John is in hysterics as well.  “This is insane,” he says, sighing noisily, only to burst out laughing again.  “This is really not funny.  So not funny...” 

“Want me to try another one?” Sherlock wipes at the corners of his eyes with his thumbs; John takes him by the arm and kisses him, though their laughter doesn’t fully subside until a minute or two later, when they hear that Lestrade and two other officers are pounding up the stairs below. 

“Yeah,” John says, quietly. “Try another.  One of these times we’ll get the right one.”  John rubs his forehead and jaw (still tense).  “Looking forward to Vienna with you.  Get away for a bit, again.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, standing and brushing the dust off of his coat, because it is time -- to be Sherlock Holmes.


	34. Visually oriented

_Dear Sir or Madam, I recently had the pleasure of spending a holiday at your hotel.  The service and dining were excellent.  Thank you for a memorable stay.  I am writing with a request.  I realise it is a bit out of the ordinary but I hope you will be able to help.  I would be grateful if you could pass on my email address to a member of your wait staff, Alison, with regard to placing an order for organic pine honeydew from her family, who I understand are local beekeepers.   Thank you in advance.  Kind regards, Dr. John H. Watson_

***

John is on call for the hospital tonight.  This time, in fact for the first time, he has asked Sherlock to sleep over with him at his flat.  Sherlock has usually avoided going there (and pretended to be indifferent to the place) but agrees without making any disparaging comments.  He is pleased to be invited.

When they arrive it is shortly after nine at night and the building is already very quiet.  There is a single light in the foyer on a motion sensor that always clicks twice; it flickers in their eyes like an unwanted press camera and floods their backs with greenish flourescence right after John has opened his door.  

John’s place is more of a bachelor’s bedsit than a proper flat, consisting of a large, square room with a half-hearted afterthought of a kitchen annex, which has an electric hotplate and a sink with a faulty catch that reeks of sewage when not tightly plugged.  In better times, it had all been someone’s elegant dining room, until someone’s ingenious heir had subdivided a charming townhouse in a prime location into six motley and inadequate living spaces.  Three of those are on John’s floor and share a bath and toilet down a short corridor, all of which smell of the Dettol the three male inhabitants (a geometry teacher, a freelance pet photographer and John) use to disinfect the bathtub.  Many of the electrical outlets in the building, including those in the bathroom, are controlled by meters that devour 50p coins in exchange for meagre rations of current, though in John’s room two are broken (one Sherlock had ‘reset’ for him at the start for humming faintly). 

John’s place is oddly furnished.  It is dominated by a large, deep wardrobe with an elongated pair of full-length inset mirrors that in shape resemble melting eyes ( _likely gave several generations of children night terrors, before taking on a leading role among cast-offs whose only common feature seems to be their insistence on expressing low points in the history of England’s woodworking industry, instead of spontaneously combusting in shame as they ought to_ , thinks Sherlock in an internal tirade, as soon as John has switched on a light).  A fireplace has been awkwardly adapted into a bookcase -- depriving the room of any potential for atmosphere and complicating the gradual removal of the furnishings _(annoying)_.  All of these elements are overborne by an enormous, bizarre glass chandelier, two and a half feet wide where it flares out with a shower of glittery cut glass balls which are hung in a spiral configuration at the centre.  Fortunately it will remain off tonight (John knows not to push his luck). 

The place is only salvaged, in Sherlock’s estimation, by the smell of John’s clothes, shoes and soaps ( _wonderful_ ).  His bed, too, has the intoxicating scent of his hair and body and Sherlock insists on undressing and crawling into it nearly straight away, as there are no tolerable chairs -- _no, quite tolerable,_ he thinks, _as long as they effectively drive John to seek proper comfort in his armchair, across from me, where he belongs.  Drive him onward, nasty spindles_ \-- 

John’s bed is far smaller than Sherlock’s but tonight that feels exciting to them both.  John lets Sherlock take off his soft shirt for him ( _a delight; his skin an absolute delight_ ) and they kiss and settle in together, close, under the worn sheets and two thin, stripey woolen blankets.  John switches on a small lamp on his night table.  “Glad you’re here,” he says.  He runs a finger over Sherlock’s lips and smiles.  To Sherlock, John looks far too aroused and distracted to leap up quickly and go fight for anyone’s life tonight though they both know that he might have to. 

“I don’t know what you’re wearing but you smell incredible tonight,” John says. 

_Not purposely -- at Harrod’s this afternoon to sniff perfumes and materials (brief rose and violet chocolate craving as well -- only looked at them); got sprayed by an over-enthused clerk (men flirt with me now -- why?). High end wood notes, bergamot, orange, lavender (the wood is synthetic).  Unimportant --_

“Look at you,” John is saying, and leans closer, running his nose and lips lightly over Sherlock’s cheek.  “I want to touch you,” he says, “and look at you, can I?  Just a little.”  Sherlock nods and John smiles.  He runs his fingers over Sherlock’s lips and chin, tracing an organic line.   _Chin to neck, to larynx, sternal head, clavicular head, clavicle -- your fingers -- the side of the neck; ear, jawline, cheek, cheekbone; orbital bone, brow, forehead, nose...and lips...kiss me, John --_  

The admiration on John’s face feels overwhelming to Sherlock, who craves and dreads such close regard in almost equal parts.  He already wants to close his eyes.  He forces himself not to.  John sees his discomfort but chooses to try again -- a different path this time, touching cheek and ear, neck and chin.  Again, lips are last.  He always returns to them -- he loves to kiss them.  But now he is still only looking; he circles them and parts them gently with his finger as he might do with his tongue.   He will move in soon and lick them.  It is hard to stay away. He runs one of his wonderfully warm hands down Sherlock’s chest, admiring him, teasing, nearly tickling him with the lightness of his touch one moment, and the next smoothing over ribs and waist with his palm. 

“Do you like what I’m doing?” he asks gently, as his hand cups Sherlock’s hip. 

Sherlock is now aware that he has been staring at John and biting his tongue.  “Yes, very much.”

“Feel what you’re doing to me.”  John takes one of Sherlock’s hands and guides it between his legs. 

 _John.  Madman._ Sherlock smiles.

“What you did, that night,” John says, and his words go ragged at the edges as he is being touched, “our cocks, together like -- that.  _Hmmm_.  Wanna know -- something?”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, circling his thumb slowly and watching John's face as he tries to keep speaking.

“When I’m out and I think of it.  Hmmm.  _So good._   I swear, I could hunt you down -- and have you, _hmmm_.  Wherever I find you.  In a bank, _in a bloody_ _cab_.  Wherever.  I want it tonight.  I want you on me this time.”

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat and he regrets that he cannot immediately think of a better answer for all of that besides, “Okay.”  His mind is swarming over what John has just been saying -- he hadn’t imagined that John would fantasise  about _\-- that -- in public -- in a cab?  With me?_    The thought makes him want to scream into his hands with delight, in all frankness. 

It also emboldens him.   _John.  Visually oriented._

He lets go of John’s cock, pushes the blankets away from them and lowers himself over John, who is staring up at him with a wide, open smile ( _lust, competing against exasperation, for full control of his expressive face_ ).  He leans down and kisses John lightly on the mouth, no tongue (John is aching for it) and rubs the very tip of his cock against the inside of John’s leg; he runs himself against the length of John’s trembling cock a bit before pushing his own between John’s legs ( _masserande cirklar på perineum -- for lust_ ); John groans, “You’re _\-- oh God -- kill -- ing -- me_ \--”  Sherlock smiles.  _Lust must win_.  

Now Sherlock begins to move, less teasingly, offering the length and wetness of his own cock, stroking John’s sac, until John protests physically and vocally, shaking with want, pulling him closer, asking for more contact, wanting to be sucked.  ( _Exasperation -- so erotic, on your face.  You can still wait, soldier, you can._ ) Sherlock works his tongue slowly into John’s mouth and takes John’s cock, rewarding him a bit with his quick fingers (John sighs, though his teeth are clenched _\-- exasperation_ ), before taking them both in his hand.  John arches his back into that touch (“Won’t last,” John hisses, “long -- so hot, look at you --”).  John is beginning to lose control completely ( _lust -- excellent_ ).  His breath is eager, broken by sighs and hums; he is staring at Sherlock’s pale body above him and hissing at every change in his touch; Sherlock is kissing his neck and ears while John watches the movements of his hips and back -- he is groaning, smiling; very soon he is close.  His thighs are tense and he is nearly wincing from the pressure (without, and within); the nearer he is, the more keenly his body is tracking every flick of Sherlock’s fingers. 

Then he feels Sherlock breathing in his ear, “John.”

“Oh yeah --“ John groans, “you’re so -- _God,_ _your fingers_ \--“

“John,” Sherlock says again, licking his ear. ( _Vulgar?_ )  “Look at your wardrobe.” ( _Very vulgar._ )

John turns his head to see; his eyes defocus.  _“Oh, Christ,”_ he mumbles, coming forcefully as he pulls Sherlock down close for a deep kiss, growling and gasping and sighing over their tongues; the sounds, heat and scent of John ratchet Sherlock into something very near mindless passion; he discovers a few long moments later that he has bitten into John’s bad shoulder in several places.  He is sorry and self-conscious and tries to kiss away the red marks he’s left.  John kisses Sherlock’s head and assures him it’s _extremely_ hot to be bitten like that (and that he might do it more).  He sacrifices a shirt to the aftermath of it all and sits cross-legged in bed next to Sherlock, who is now hugging one of his knees and staring (blankly) at John.  John gazes across the room in the poor light and remarks, shaking his head, that he will probably never be able to look at his wardrobe doors again without getting a massive erection.  “And I will never leave this flat.”

“I’ve made a fatal mistake,” Sherlock says. “It’ll have to come to Baker Street.  So two fatal mistakes.  Perhaps more, I can’t count now.”  He closes his eyes.

“That’s good,” John says and moves closer so he can put an arm around him. 

Sherlock rests his head on John’s warm chest.  “In a _cab_ , John?”

“Well, yeah.  I mean.  Okay, never mind.”

“It would require some thought and planning.”

“What?”

“Speaking from a notional standpoint, of course.  For now.”

“What?”

Sherlock is learning how to wind up John. 

John goes quickly for a wash, because, after all, they might call him in; he says he feels he could perform a pioneering bit of brain surgery if asked.  But ultimately he isn’t called to the hospital all night; he finally drifts into a shallow sleep, with Sherlock curled up against his back; Sherlock has already decided that he likes John’s small bed very much.  He falls asleep with a smile playing at his lips.  John holds one of Sherlock's hands close to his chest. 

***

An answer to John’s email to Norfolk comes the next day:

_Hello, Dr. Watson, As far as ordering honey ... sold by grammage ... my aunt says she has the equivalent of one quart jar ...  use PayPal...  If not I will send you info ... No need to bother with a courier ... my cousin commutes to London ... so it doesn’t get broken etc...._

As John skims through it he is already grinning down at the screen of his phone. 

_A quart jar?  Oh yeah.  All mine, baby --_

Sherlock glances up at him inquiringly.  The question soon leaves his eyes to be replaced with an assumption (an incorrect one, but John will not call him on it); he sniffs to himself and glares down at the journal he is reading. 

_Dear Alison, Thank you for your answer.  Yes, I am interested in the quart, to start..._


	35. Omnia vincit amor

John finds himself grinning at the very thought of the pine honeydew, which will be hand-delivered to him at King’s Cross in a day or two; he is waiting for a message from Alison’s cousin.  As he gets ready for work this morning, he looks over Sherlock's form. He is still balled up in John's woolen blankets, back to the wall, sound asleep.  Seven hours at the clinic lie ahead of John but he isn’t bothered.  He feels fantastic after another night on call, with Sherlock. Their closeness always feels amazing to him -- each time it is slightly different in its effect on his senses. Sherlock had arrived late; he had seemed subdued and preoccupied. It had been a very close, sweet night.  Intimate and gentle.  No teasing, no playing.  Sherlock had only wanted (had asked him quietly) to be kissed and petted; John had held him as he’d drifted in and out of sleep.  

Now John crosses the room and slides down next to Sherlock in bed and uncovers his wild head.  He sees two signs of life (eyes -- barely open, but already beautiful to look at). 

“Good morning, love,” John says, brushing his fingers over Sherlock’s forehead and brows, “I’m leaving.  Completely against my will.”

“John,” Sherlock mumbles; registering that John is fully dressed, he opens his eyes completely and starts to sit up.  “Ah.  Going.”

“Yeah,” John says, “so here are my keys and I’ll come by and see you this afternoon.”

“Come by?”  Sherlock repeats.

“What?  Oh, I’m going out with some friends in the evening,” John says, running his warm fingertips over Sherlock’s chin.

“Mmm.”

“You’d be bored by them, I think,” John explains, suddenly.

“You won’t be?” Sherlock asks.   _Whoever they are._

“Well, that’s what beer is for,” John replies, smiling to himself.  “No, I’m joking.”

“I’ll bring your keys,” Sherlock tells him, “when I’m on my way out.”

“Then I won’t see you again until tomorrow afternoon.”

Sherlock puts his hand around the back of John’s neck and runs his fingertips through John’s hair.  “Or evening.”

“Or evening.”

John leans over and kisses him once more.  Sherlock lets go of him.  "I’ll call you,” John says.  “I really don’t want to leave this room, you know.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and John goes out, gently clicking the door shut behind him.

A bit later, at John’s clinic, Sherlock slips in between John’s third and fourth patients and they are able to share a longer and slower kiss.  Sherlock drops John’s keys into his white hip pocket for him and wraps a hand around his nape, running his nose and mouth over John’s neck.  John loves the pressure of those lips on his throat -- and his entire body is sorry to feel Sherlock pull away.  He opens his eyes just as Sherlock quickly wishes him a good day and leaves in a swish of dark wool and nervous energy.  In spite of the numerous cabinets and chairs that crowd at John, the room immediately seems empty to him -- as every place does, when Sherlock has just gone.  Perhaps that is why John already misses him inside, as well.  Viscerally.

 _There's more, but what?_   John has been left with the same impression he’d felt in the night -- Sherlock doesn’t seem entirely okay.  Then again, John thinks, Sherlock has far blacker moods, _as a quick glance at a nearby wall or detective inspector has often shown._  

***

Sherlock is standing in Alex’s flat, surrounded by its peculiarly dated fittings and furnishings.  He doesn’t have time to poke about the place, though naturally he is greatly tempted to.  He dials Alex instead.

_"Guten Morgen, keine Sorgen."_

“ _Gruss Gott,_ Sherlock.  Are you and Sophie in, then?”

“Yes, presently experiencing pangs of nostalgia over authoritarian populism, in your living room.  Sorry, I believe that was my brother speaking through me.”

“Enjoy yourselves.  You could have just picked the lock, in retrospect, I imagine?”

“Mmm.  It’s a Bramah.”

“It’s Westminster,” Alex retorts. 

“Right you are.  That particular lock resets itself every time you try to test a slider because its seven pin points share a single spring,” Sherlock says, looking about the place as he walks through toward the room Alex uses as his workroom, with a small drafting table, cases of books, a modest sofa bed and a chair that he remembers sitting in while Alex had been sketching him ( _cruel to you_ ).  “And they are at about 51.5 degree angles and not 45, and I would have to work at it for far longer than it’s worth just to be able to have at your rotary phone.  Right, Sophie?  She agrees.  But, the lock on your balcony door is rubbish. Some time when I have 12 seconds or so to spare I’ll show you how to break in when you’ve lost your keys.  So.  I’m standing in front of your library.  And I can’t believe you’ve allowed this madwoman to let me into your flat.”  Sophie laughs behind Sherlock’s shoulder and goes to open windows and air the rooms while they are there. 

Sherlock has already had two large, strong cups of sweet coffee with her this morning and now feels he is getting wordy.   _Annoying._  

“Maybe you’ll at least straighten things up a bit.  Well.  All three of them should be on the second shelf from the top, in the third bookcase.”

“Ah.  Yes.”

“Whatever else you want, take it.”

“Just the three.”

“Oh.  Sherlock, about recording dreams on paper.  You were asking about it once.”

“Yes?”

“You might have a look at a _Daumenkino_ I have.  You know -- a flip book.”

 _A thumb cinema._  “Okay, where is it?”

“The top shelf of the second bookcase, or maybe the first.  No, the second.  It’s spine-up, about six inches tall.  Do you see it?”

“Blue soft cover?”

“Take it but don’t show Sophie.  She thinks I’m suicidal.”

“And are you?”  Sherlock pockets the book quickly.

“What?  Are you joking?”

“No.  Are you?”

“Don’t confuse me,” Alex replies.  “Your ambivalence.  Honestly.”

“Anything else we might enjoy rummaging through, Alex?”

“That’s a matter of taste.  And one shouldn’t discuss matters of taste, as my Auntie Claudia liked to say.  Her violin was horrid, though, objectively, it really was,” Alex quips and Sherlock hears in his voice that he is smiling to himself.  _Wordy as well -- drawing something_ , thinks Sherlock. “I wonder.  Do you play well?” Alex asks.

“We can discuss it sometime.  All right, I won’t keep you, you’re supposed to be working.”

“Yeah, I am, that’s true.  Take good care, Sherlock.”

“See you in Vienna. Perhaps.”

“Oh, really?  When?”

“I’ll let you know.  Consider what you might need from London, either way.” 

“Lovely.  Lovely.  Take care.  And greet John from me.”

Sherlock takes his leave from Sophie and returns to Baker Street with Alex’s books.

He changes into house clothes and flops into his armchair; he opens the small blue-covered book at a few random pages. He sees immediately that it is a remarkable piece of work.  It appears to be all in ink over pencil. It begins from the perspective of the side of a man’s head.  His ear is slightly above centre and dominates the page.  Sherlock tilts the book to its side and begins to watch the primitive cinema in his hand as he runs his long thumb over the thick stack of pages (one hundred nineteen drawings without _Fin_ at the end; in a moment he will have counted them).

The ear has been blown open by a shot or an impact to the other side of the head; it swings aside on a hidden hinge; from the void ( _an open door in the skull, vulnerability_ ), tiny human figures, blood, and patterns flood out; some of the people are running away and disappearing into the flow, while others embrace and then tear away from each other, before collapsing in place.  The liquid, which has been flowing at their feet, carries them with it, pooling at the bottom of the image.  At the same time, patterns progressively fade away, finally disappearing altogether, and the entire picture goes static for a second _(memory impulses oxidate and nerves go still.  Well done)._  The ear swings shut on its hinges again and it is all over.  Sherlock flips the pages back and forth -- uncounted times. 

_Dying mind.  People are innately afraid of losing memories.  Being forgotten.  By those they have loved.  Or been loved -- by.  Obviously._

_Or not so obviously.  To be properly loved is not ‘obvious’ at all. Includes innumerable unforeseeable variables.  Rare._

The book has moved him.  It is dreadful and beautiful, if ever he has seen art worthy of that description.  Sherlock considers it at length. And reconsiders Alex, whose medical records he had finally demanded of Mycroft. _Talented.  An open book.  Has always made me see John.  Clearly, from the first day.  Still does.  How?  It’s not a matter of a silly contrast.  No.  Details?  Focus?_

What troubles Sherlock goes far deeper, however. Death and the moments leading toward it have fascinated him for as long as he can remember.  He has begun to feel anxious around the edges over it -- that is very new to him.  He has never had to bury a (human) friend, and has hardly imagined it.  John will soon bury one of his; Jim is thirteen months older than John and is now in dangerously rapid decline (Sherlock has spoken to Linda again; Jim will stay in hospice; he cannot be left at home).  Alex sketches and inks in drawings to the _slip-tick_ of a nineteen-year-old biomechanical valve, wanting replacement (30% chance of death on the table, in his case; the doctor has urged him to decide).  

Sherlock's fascination is beginning to itch and hurt him.  That, in turn, makes him angry.  An impulse to resist it and go cold toward it again surges -- where he finds he can no longer go entirely cold.  

Because John is there.   _Warm.  Strong, and well.  Beautiful and healthy.  Aging, but aging very well.  Loves me.  Kept safe._

Sherlock finally puts the _Daumenkino_ aside and takes another (an album).  After looking at a few pages of it he notices that he has been grinding his teeth.  He closes the cover and shoves the book among his papers. _John will want to look through it with me and talk about it.  Nnngh.  Or, he might take it and look through it without me.  No -- he shall do neither -- it is signed 'ex libris Alexander George Adalbert Nussbaum'._

Sherlock opens another book.  It is more technical in nature and far more approachable; if he wants to work on proper anatomical drawing, he decides, he will also need to pay a visit to Bart’s morgue.  And draw John when he is sleeping.   _Beautiful John._ He finally smiles. 

He gets out Jens’ drafting pencil (his own favourite now) and the black sketchbook and props up the technical drawing book in front of himself.  He starts working through perspective drawings of feet, beginning with studies of shaded, boxy shapes.

***

The following evening, John is at Baker Street.  They have had a light supper and John has settled into his armchair across from Sherlock, who he sees is watching him intently.  Sherlock wants to ask him who he'd been out with, and how his day had gone.  However, he is distracted from it by his study of the lines of John's legs and feet.  As his eyes follow the bend of John's knees, John is absorbed in looking at Alex’s flip-book, which Sherlock had left in the middle of the living room table for the taking.

“What is this?  It's nasty,” he says.

“Mmm.  You don’t care for it?” Sherlock asks, as he takes in the proportion of John's thigh to his calf.

“Did you --?  No.  This must be Alex’s, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Ah.  So he gave this to you?” John asks, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“No," Sherlock says, finally looking him in the face.

_John is trying to connect to it emotionally.  Finds it upsetting._

“It’s.  Yeah.”  John is flipping it again in the middle section.  His eyes go slightly round and he shakes his head at it.  “So.  What was he using?”

“His imagination, I presume,” Sherlock says, steepling his fingers and adjusting his back in his chair. 

“Right.”  John looks at Sherlock and frowns.  He sighs noisily through his lips. “Ffff--hmm.”

Sherlock’s eyes come to life and are searching John’s. “What,” he says.  “Oh. You’ve been wanting to ask me about it.  You said as much on the rooftop.”

 _Bloody mind reader._  “Well, yeah.  But.”

Sherlock puts his hand out for the flip-book and John gives it to him.  Sherlock has a single image that he likes best, near the middle; he finds it and studies it.  “So ask,” he says, shrugging. “You’re dragging your feet.”

"I already know pretty much everything, just --”

Sherlock had not been prepared to hear that at all.  His mind leaps into a whir of _How_.

“Greg told me a lot,” John states plainly. His face is pinched a bit, as if he were watching something unpleasant on the telly; he is responding to the rage he sees in Sherlock's entire posture.  He expects Sherlock to leap up and start pacing.  He doesn't.

“Lestr --” Sherlock bares his teeth on the name.  

“Don’t.  No.  Hear me out.”  John holds up a hand.  He continues.  “Listen.  When you jumped, I couldn’t, uhm. I couldn't come to.  You know why.  At one point, I just wanted to talk.  Listen to me! I didn't want to read all the shit in the press, or hear how you’re a coward, or a liar, but just hear someone talk about _you_.  Are you listening to me?  Greg took it hard, too, in his own way.”

Sherlock is staring.  

“So.  Look. One day, I invited him for a drink and we got pissed out of our minds.  He was the worse off, and he started telling me about how he met you.  I pulled him by the tongue and he told me what you were using, where you were staying, who was there with you, and also -- what you were about to do when he met you.  Yeah.  And how things were just after.  And, just after that.  Look.  Don’t be angry.  We thought you were _dead_ , it was after _a year without you._ And it was in strict confidence between _friends_.  Remember that."

Sherlock doesn’t reply immediately.  But then he says, through tense lips, “You’ve never given any indication that you knew.  Why not.”

“Yeah.  Well, you aren’t dead.  It's about honour.  That's all.”

"Your question.”

“Yeah.  I want to know why you were doing heroin.”   _Because I swear, I would block your arm with my own hand while I blew the fucking head off your dealer’s shoulders._

Sherlock huffs to himself and answers, “That’s easy.  Because it shuts off the tedious noise and gives an extremely concentrated bodily experience.  The initial hit is like gravitational force getting ten times stronger in a second, which doesn't hurt, unless it itches, which it usually does, and sometimes you vomit _and_ itch.  No bother, though.  Mentally, physically, and intellectually, you go numb.  It is like your entire consciousness is little more than awareness of your body, in a gorgeously simplified state.  And once you have got used to it you can pretty much go about doing whatever you like without leaving that intense connectedness with the physical self.  It’s lovely, really.  And you don't care about anything.”  He flips Alex’s book back and forth slowly in his lap.  “If you overdo the dose, the gravity feels even stronger and you walk half-kneeling.  Really, the psychological benefits reach far beyond the side effects, if you can keep yourself from diving into it too far.  It’s a matter of control.  It’s a lot stronger than opium or synthetic opioids, and morphine is boring by comparison.  Filthy around the edges, as highs go, just not worth the effort to wait through it at the end, even if it’s cheap and easy to come by.  Mmm.  What.”

John feels a stab of sadness in his chest that he cannot relieve by breathing deeply; he tries anyhow.  “Never talk about using, with that look on your face.  It’s awful,” he says, swallowing hard.

“Is it?” Sherlock says (far too cynically; they both know it). “You knew, you _still_ asked.  You made an inequitable choice, _doctor_ , but it was a well-informed one, hard to sympathise with you, there.”  He flicks Alex’s book again with a flourish.  He finally sets it down on the floor next to his chair and folds his hands tightly.

“If you ever shoot up junk or take pills again,” John says, as he pinches at the bridge of his nose,  “it will also mean you don’t want _this_ anymore."

"No, John," Sherlock says, quietly.

"That’s how I’ll take it,” he hears in reply.  

Sherlock’s quick eyes survey John's face; John means what he says.  

“I never imagined,” Sherlock says, in a voice almost unlike his own (and therefore very much his own).

“Hmmm.  What?” John asks.

“Didn't expect.”

"What."

"Anyone."

“Oh, hey.  Hey, now.”  When John sees how pale his dearest friend has got he wants to protect him immediately.  He climbs onto Sherlock, in his armchair, and kisses his head, around his temples and his (closed) eyes.  “So glad you’re mine, love, you’ve no idea. You've no idea.”

He presses his lips gently over Sherlock's and brushes his cheek with his fingertips.  

It is like an axe on a frozen stream.

***

 

(We will leave them alone, together in Sherlock’s armchair.  They do not need us now.) 

 

____________

_German texts_ :

Good day, no worries.

Greetings _('Greet the Lord' - Austrian "good day")_

 


	36. The art of forensics

“Males.  Intact torso and legs.”

“Mhm, right over here.  This one.”

“Preferably younger, and not overweight.”

Sherlock and Molly are in the morgue at Bart’s hospital.  Sherlock is looking about them; there are two corpses on tables, both of which have just been stitched up after autopsies; one (a short, pudgy woman, going by the bulges) is already zipped away in a body bag, and the other is covered in a white sheet.

“Motorcyclist,” Molly says, indicating the latter. “Twenty-six.  A pity, nice looking until most of the muscle on his back got sloughed off on the motorway, eh?  He's had massive internal bleeding but he’s intact from the hip down on one side, just bruised and scratched.  The left hip and pelvis were crushed.  You need to see him for...?”

“Sketching.”

“Turning over a new leaf, then?” Molly asks, her lips pursed in a smile that she’s finally unable to suppress fully.

“Sorry?” Sherlock looks over at her.

“The art of forensics?” she asks, ducking her head playfully.  “A sketchy-but-fun hobby, eh?”

“What?” Sherlock watches her face more critically. 

“No.  Just, there aren’t many with tattoos, here,” she remarks.  She is shrugging _\-- apologetically?_

“Why would that matter?” he asks.

“No, I mean, you, well, you could always draw them on, I suppose,” Molly says, as she begins removing the sheet from the bottom half of the motorcyclist’s body.

“Draw them on?”

“If you like your models with, well, you know a bit of ink work here and there,” she says.

“Why --” _Oh._  Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed for a moment.   _David Nussbaum’s paintings._   “Those paintings I emailed you were part of a case.”

“Oh, I know,” Molly says.  “But.  Well.  It makes a lot of sense like this, actually.”

“What actually makes sense, Molly.”  Sherlock really wants her to let him be.

“Drawing _them_.  They don’t complain!” she says, and starts giggling.  She shoves her hands into her pockets like a schoolgirl.  _Endearing in that,_ he thinks, _childish and pretty_. “And they won’t ask for breaks or get up and go, either.”

“Right you are,” he says. “But you might.  Could you leave us?”

Her eyes widen a bit. _(Perhaps at ‘us’.)_  She is still smiling a bit too sheepishly.  “Yeah, sure.  Sure.  See you later then, just tell me when you’re going so I can lock up.”

When she has walked out in a sensible swish of ponytail, corduroy and clogs, Sherlock pulls up two metal chairs, seats himself and stretches his legs out to rest his heels; he begins studying the body’s pallid, bruised knee and thigh, which he now has at eye-level; he starts sketching their contours.  He sees immediately that he will have to Skype Alex about the shading.  He cannot make it out.  He narrows his eyes at the thigh muscle.   _Out of training at the time of death, recently acquired a desk job.  Reckless riding perhaps a reaction to the restraints of the office._

Sherlock flicks his pencil in his fingers. 

 _Frederick’s bolts of Merino -- exquisite smells and textures.  Should go far more often. Reactions, reactions.  Restrained them today for the sake of decency -- decency for two.  At the tailor’s, for God's sake.  Frederick’s second -- no, third client of the day -- born into his fortune, international logistics -- barges, perhaps; henna.  Nails impeccable.  Far too much effort put into tying his tie and shoelaces.  Has a manservant; well-mannered speech (like Alex, except that Alex has class).  The assumptions they make:  repulsive.  His eyes.  ‘You prefer men as well, ergo you're clearly an option, consider me an option’.  Repellent!  John would have punched him, saved us all the trouble.  I'd have watched it with pleasure._ _And I’d always thought it would be so hateful to be ‘someone’s’.  Well._ _I have a possessive lover who carries a gun to the supermarket.  If people are too stupid to deduce that by looking at me they certainly don't deserve any sympathy._

He crosses his ankles on the chair and eyes the line of the knee bones; he measures their proportion with the top of the pencil.  _Broader than John’s knee; thighs far less muscular than John’s.  John is perfect._   _Yet admires me closely to turn himself on.  Licks me, touches me, pets my face.  As if I were -- a beautiful woman --_

Sherlock presses his teeth together until it begins to hurt.  He begins another line drawing of the thigh, from the knee. 

_Perhaps he never finished any of those kisses, with them.  With her.  As I never finished any with anyone else.  I never even felt anyone else’s._

He attacks one line vigorously with his rubber, smearing it.

 _Contact on the mouth?  Merely filler.  Due to someone’s inability to be engaging.  In order not to talk.  Gestures, for practice --_ _like taking down sketches of the dead -- Übung macht den Meister._ *

His pencil chafes against the page.  He turns the lead to the side.

 _The knee is too large.  Lacks perspective.  As I lack skill.  Poorly done._  Sherlock erases at it impatiently, again. 

_I hardly function three days without his kisses, bites, words, his hands.  Three days and I am burning alive.  The body does not forget.  That he is mine.  (Nearly everywhere.)_

_Come see me tonight.  SH_

                _I’ll call you in 10, OK?_

“John.”

“Hi, love.  How are you?”

 _John is on his back; yes, springs of the bed._   “You don’t want to see me, why not?” Sherlock asks.

“I want to but I'm feeling like hell,” John answers, exhaling ( _turning over on his side_ ). 

“What’s the matter?”

“Picked up something at work.”

“But what is it?”

“Stomach virus.  Been going round for a couple of weeks.”

“Then what do you need?  Dinner, something else?”

“No, no.  Don’t come by.  You'd catch it from me now.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re not coming by.  Need a day or two and I’ll be all yours, okay?”

“Mmmm.”

“Everything all right?  What’s on?”

Sherlock’s eyes fall on the corpse and then on his sketch.  He smiles to himself.  “Nothing of any interest.”

“Yeah.  I’m -- this is god-awful.  Sorry,” John sighs.  “Oh, I’ll have a surprise for you, you know?”

 _And I for you._  “Really?  What kind?”

“Not telling.  You’ll have to wait until I’m back on my feet.  You’ll like it, though.” John’s broad smile is audible.   _Tantalisingly broad.  Beautiful man.  High probability it concerns --_

“One clue?”

“Nope, no clues.  Love you, Sherlock.”

“Mmm.  I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, John.”   _Truly._

***

_When he is not here breathing feels shallow and incomplete. I will tell him so.  Perhaps he will understand it._

 

                _I can hardly breathe without you here.  SH_

_Missing you too.  Wardrobe!!!_

_So what are you wearing?  :)_

_Russet dressing gown. Untied.  SH_

_Unfair!!!  Goodnight my love_

 

_Loves me.  How do people carry on like this for years?  How do they survive?  How can they even breathe?_

__________

* Practice makes the master (Practice makes perfect)


	37. An acquired taste

Sherlock is in a small park near the suburbs, crouched over a patch of wet leaves and pulpy mud where a young man had been found strangled to death in the morning hours.  He has already followed three sets of footmarks to a nearby bench, which is surrounded by gravel, and back.  Now he has been staring at several square yards of ground for more than twenty minutes, refusing to listen to any of Lestrade's explanations.  Finally he snaps up straight and turns angrily to the DI, who had retreated some time before and had taken to watching hopefully, a few feet away.

"What have you got?" Lestrade asks, eyebrows raised inquiringly. "It's.  Uh."

"Your lot of circus workers trample over the place and then you call me -- for what!" Sherlock snarls at him in response.

"Sherl -- "

"The entire crime scene is wrecked at the edges, I can hardly even see -- absurd, Lestrade!  Five sets, and two are your people's at the edges.  The incompetence is paralysing!  And you had to wait until it had rained for an hour?"

"No.  Look.  If you'll listen, for five seconds.  Finally.  Passers by -- just kids.  A group of three teens found him when they were walking through on their way to school and brought him over to that park bench right there.  They thought he was still alive and tried to reanimate him, then they called an ambulance and the EMTs notified us."

"One with weak arches, another with congenital dysplasia, overweight.  The third has new trainers.  All three are idiots."

"No, good kids.  Well-meaning, anyway," Greg shrugs.

"They should all be lined up and shot!  There's nothing left, Lestrade!  Where is he?"

"On ice.  We can go have a look.  John around?"

"Has it occurred to you that one or more of those good kids might have come back to destroy evidence?  Or someone else.  Because this is first calibre.  _Nnngh_!"

"Did occur to me.  And they were all at home with parents at his time of death.  Already checked them out and they're clean."

"Anything else?  Anything?  Who was he.  Tell me something about the corpse."

"Haven't ID'ed him yet.  Nothing to go on.  Could be anyone.  We'll go in about five minutes.  Is John here somewhere?"

*** 

John has needed longer than he'd anticipated to get over the stomach flu.  He and Sherlock have texted often but it is clear that the detective is completely absorbed in a case.  John is just old-school enough that he doesn't consider texting or emailing to be a forum for his most important thoughts and he finds he'd rather wait on expressing a lot of his feelings until he can see Sherlock in person at Baker Street.  He misses his friend very much; he does some reading and bit of writing to pass the time but finds there is nothing in it that he cares to publish online.  He has plenty of occasions to stare at his wardrobe doors.  When that is no longer bearable he tries to think rationally about what is happening in his life.  He has the impression that everything is slowly (or not so slowly) resetting itself and pushing him in a completely unknown direction, though not one he fears or distrusts:  it is the most pleasant free-fall he can imagine.  He decides that this is not a temporary change or state of things in him or Sherlock at all, and that nobody, ever, will get a chance to wreck it -- _and live to tell about it_.  He wants it.  Still.  He considers briefly how he (they) will handle the press when the time comes; it is inevitable that people will talk.  He dreads it far less than he might have in other times.  He finds that the only thing that he is afraid of, in fact, is completely losing what they have.  He doesn't want anything else, and hasn't for a long time.  _Not since_ \-- and here he stops.  _An expert job at slicing someone off and letting her wilt and die.  Well done.  But I wasn't the one who lied.  Granted, Sherlock lied to me as well, when he jumped, but -- selflessly loved me.  For years.  That brilliant mind, singlemindedly.  I might do much better by him._   He hates being alone just now, but again, putting all that in a text makes no sense whatsoever.

Sherlock misses John badly as well, but is less and less able to recognise it as such; he becomes more frustrated and less communicative as the days go by; nobody has come forward to identify the strangled body.  There have been no reported disappearances that might be matched up to the dead man.  His DNA has not been found in any available database.  Meanwhile, a killer is on the loose and Sherlock is furious over it.  Because he cannot sleep well (he misses John's warm back terribly, and the scent of John's nape even more), he has started working on a series of experiments involving acidity and paper pulp decomposition rates.  His head has been aching on and off for several days.  He is sporadically in contact with Lestrade with ideas, though the case is becoming more of a barb in his side than anything else:  the only clear clue they have is a row of wood splinters on the palm of the man's hand -- pointing to a struggle or merely labour around wood.  He refuses to meet any clients at Baker Street.

***

John comes by in the evening, after his first day back at the clinic.  He finds Sherlock in the kitchen at the table, measuring the pH of some liquid in a petri dish.

"How're things," John says (rather than asks), because from the appearance of the place, Lestrade's text to him earlier that afternoon had been spot on ( _S in a strop.  Reason with him bc we're at a dead end.  Greg_ ). 

"John," Sherlock mumbles, setting a tone too many notches below what John would have liked to hear, in greeting, after so many days.

"I'm thinking about something.  I wonder if you can deduce it?"  John asks, standing over him and running a hand across his shoulder.

Sherlock turns his head toward him and flicks his eyes over him as he might do to a specimen in a glass cabinet.  Above all, John's ears are pink; he stops there.  "It concerns sex."

John clears his throat and steps back.  "Not necessarily."  He puts his hands behind his back, assuming something of a parade rest.

Sherlock looks at him again.  "So something you find erotic _at times_ but which is not necessarily connected with sex in every context.  And."  He goes back to glaring at the pH paper and throws it aside; in a moment, the contents of his petri dish are dumped brusquely down the sink.

"Well, yeah, possibly," John concedes.  "But I'm not --"

"Forgive me," Sherlock says absently, sounding rather uninterested in being forgiven.  "But if this really concerns deducing what you're thinking about, I believe I have, and if you intended to distract me from my work, _bravo_ , you've succeeded well enough already."  He sits back in his chair; more than anything else he looks discouraged.  "John, I --"

"Carry on.  Yeah.  Good luck."

"Not luck.  It's never about luck."

"Right.  _Timing's_ got to fall in there, somewhere," John comments; though he is let down and aggravated enough to resort to a far more explosive response (given any more fuel from Sherlock's side), he quickly decides to leave things as they are and go home instead. "Figure it out for us, yeah?" he mutters through his teeth.

He crosses the living room and closes his fist around his keys, which are lying on the tabletop, along with a paper shopping bag he'd brought along.  He grabs that as well and he trots back down the stairs, wiggles into his coat, and slips out the door with a growl.  As he walks out onto Baker Street, he pauses to pat down his pockets for his phone, which has started to vibrate (a personal reminder, which he now angrily deletes; he starts a text to Lestrade and then changes his mind).

He is turning on his heel to walk off just as he hears a faint sound of glass shattering upstairs.  He pauses and listens closely; he hears another.  It occurs to him that it might be for his benefit, but concludes it's rather unlikely, and shoves his key back into the door lock.  As he does so he hears a third crash (much more strident this time -- a larger object).  He gets the door open, closes it loudly behind him and cautiously scales the stairs, listening closely as he goes.  "Sherlock," he calls out, "knock it off, for Christ's sake, what is that!"  When he doesn't hear an answer he pushes open the door to the kitchen and peers in.  Shards of tempered glass sparkle across the entire floor and tabletop.  "Shhhit," he hisses.  Sherlock isn't seated among them anymore; he is in the living room, curled up on the sofa, with his forehead pressed into the back of it.  "What the hell are you doing?" John asks, as he enters.  He sets his keys and bag back where they'd been before.  "And...what's been taking the brunt of your bloody regressive --"  He looks down at Sherlock and decides to hold his tongue on the rest.  After all, he loves his friend madly and he had not wanted to leave at all.

He steps over the coffee table and takes a seat near Sherlock's head.  "Look.  I know it isn't going well.  I heard from Greg.  Said you were -- yeah."

Sherlock sighs.

"Come," John says, and Sherlock puts his head on John's leg and curls up even more, putting an arm around John's hip.  John strokes his hair.  "By the way, whatever you're doing in there, it smells toxic.  I hope you're ventilating it.  I thought you'd be receptive to having a break, especially after some of your texts --"

"I was."

 _Ventilating or bloody receptive?_   "All right.  Just say.  If you want I'll stay for a while, or I can go, whatever, you can work." 

Sherlock kisses John's stomach.  "Stay," he answers.

John pets Sherlock's cheek and neck and hopes that at least one of them calms down soon.

"So," John says in a bit.  "Greg said the case is at a total impasse."

"No, it is not.  I'll find it.  We're missing something," Sherlock responds.

"Is that why you're wrecking your kitchen?"

Sherlock sighs again (at the _your kitchen_ of it as much as anything else, though he is ashamed as well).  "No.  I'm working on a new project."

John shakes his head. "Right.  Listen," he says.  "I brought something for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  Want to see it, or some other time?"

"Show me."

"Let me up and I'll get it.  It's glass," John says nodding toward the bag on the table. "I don't want you anywhere near it."

"Glass?" Sherlock buries his nose in John's groin.  It tickles and John squirms.

"Yeah.  So let me up." John stands and goes to the table and digs around in his paper bag.

"So what is it?" Sherlock asks, finally sitting up all the way; he rubs at his right temple a bit, interested.

"Just close your eyes," John tells him.  He has unscrewed the lid off the jar of pine honeydew.  "Closed?"

"Yes, they're closed."

"Keep them closed."  John sticks his finger in the jar and takes out a generous dollop of honey, which is crystalised and has the consistency of slightly gritty, softened butter.  "Still closed?

"Yes, John."

"Good," John says.  "Now hold still."  He smirks to himself and dabs a bit of the honey onto Sherlock's mouth.  "Recognise it?" he asks, staring at Sherlock's tongue and teeth as they flick over his lips.

"This is -- oh.  Mmmm.  From -- Alison's aunt." Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at him.  "In Wells.  Am I right?"

"Yup," John says, offering him his finger again.  "And look how you guessed it straight away."   _It's feeling far too damned good to have this finger sucked,_ he thinks _\-- not even eight days, already can't --_

"No need to guess."  Sherlock has noticed that John is staring very warmly at his lips.

"No?" John asks.

"You had this sent down for me," Sherlock says quietly.  "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John answers.  "I've got a quart of it over there, by the way."

"That's brilliant," Sherlock replies.

John has rarely seen him look so delighted with a present, so suddenly.  In truth, Sherlock regards it far more highly than his entire collection of gem-encrusted trinkets from clients past ( _who happen to consider themselves illustrious_ ).  However, Sherlock has also remembered an image from one of Alex's books -- an orgiastic scene from the side of an ancient amphora, portraying a dinner where warriors at a table fuck and feed each other at once as several women (holding baskets of fruit) look on _\-- ridiculous, tasteless and dissolute to the extreme -- and yet nobody could bring themselves to smash it for two and a half millennia -- I couldn't either --_

"You know, at a certain breakfast table, after a very special night, remember," John is murmuring to him, "I asked you to stop.  Way too soon."  John has forgotten about the broken glass in the kitchen, Sherlock hopes; for now, it seems he has.

"Oh.  When I was licking my fingers with appalling crudeness?"  Sherlock asks.  He smiles inwardly.  _I could never smash it...._

"Shouldn't have stopped you," John says, running a knuckle over Sherlock's lip and licking it off.  "I doubt you could be crude if you tried."

"Generous of you," Sherlock replies.  _I would fill that amphora with yellow roses and send them to you.  Waning passion?  No --and not for luck, soldier, never for luck.  An impending departure.  Anywhere but here.  Vienna --_

"Come," John says, "Let me kiss you.  Finally."

Sherlock studies John's face for a moment longer.  He gets up and takes the jar of pine honey from the bag on the table and brings it back to the sofa, opens it, and sticks his index finger deep into it.  John follows him with his eyes the entire time and watches closely as that finger comes back out of the jar and Sherlock begins sucking at the side of it, at first a bit distractedly, like he had recently while talking about Mandy, the guide dog.  John breaks into a grin.  Soon Sherlock's tongue is rolling at his finger, and he nips it; he is mocking himself, of course, but that is not to say he isn't enjoying the effect it has on John, who couldn't hide his fascination if he tried.

John wants that tongue; he'd most like to have it -- _there_ \-- (he exhales rather vocally, as his cock twitches against his jeans) -- he knows exactly how good it feels and it is beautiful to think of it.  In the meantime, he watches as Sherlock takes a bit more honey and slowly rubs it against his own lips, licking them and biting at them while holding his eyes as only he can.  John knows that he is about to be taken down.  "Don't torture me, love," he says (quite in vain).  "You're so --"  Sherlock sets the jar down on the coffee table and snickers at him as he covers two of his fingers in honey.  He smudges John's entire mouth in it and then laps at his own fingertip a bit just in front of John's face ( _Vulgar!  But he is enjoying it -- remarkable_ ) before leaning in and flicking his tongue along each of his lips with intense precision, taking all the honey back as John sighs and tries to kiss him back.

"Driving me --" he mumbles as Sherlock's teeth nibble over his lower lip.  "I've missed -- hmm, you --"  ( _This.  This is bloody beautiful,_ he thinks.  _I can't._ )

"You should undress," Sherlock says, his voice nearly as treacle to John as his lips, by now.  He reaches down to the jar and then smears honey generously along John's throat, following it with his tongue.  "Unless you don't care for your clothes."

"Had to write about that dressing gown Tuesday," John groans, unbuttoning his shirt.  _Christ, you are killing me, look at you_.  "You're in for it."  _No, I'm in for it.  Oh God, yes._   "I wonder if you missed me?"

Sherlock responds by putting honey on John's mouth as if to silence him.  "Oh f --" John says, as he feels more drawn along his throat and collarbones.  He tries to shrug off his shirt as Sherlock presses his lips and tongues his entire neck, worrying all the honey off as he goes.  _Fuck, yeah_ \-- John is laughing as he feels the next daubs -- over and around his left nipple -- followed with warm, wet circles of tongue and gentle sucking -- until he is about to start swearing in clusters; he holds them behind his teeth.  Anything, he thinks, to avoid putting him off now, because he has _got_ to see where this is going.

Sherlock pushes John down onto several mismatched pillows, and reaches down for more honey.  John's right nipple is ceremoniously coated and treated with thorough licks and kisses; his sternum is drawn over in honey and slowly lapped clean.  Sherlock's other hand is petting and scratching him lightly.  _He knows.  How.  God...no.  Oh yeah --_   Sherlock tucks his hand under the small of John's back and rubs honey down into John's navel; as he moves to start licking it out in gentle circles, John's thighs are shaking, and his back is bending toward that tongue.  _How does he always know -- oh fuck --_  Sherlock's fingers are slipping down into his jeans, but he won't take them off; John tears at their buttons and pulls them down; his cock is heavy and eager.  "Making me --" he tries to say, kicking the rest of his clothes off to the side, "-- crazy."  John looks up to see Sherlock climbing on top of him, with madly dark eyes, searching his face for tells, _likely on how best to kill me on the spot,_ thinks John -- _Dear, dear, dearest Alison -- another gallon of this stuff -- please_.  Sherlock licks John warmly with his syropy tongue.  And kisses him.  Finally.  John is nearly biting at him by now.  "You," John growls, and he loses words against Sherlock's mouth as he feels long fingers snaking down just behind his sac, between his balls, and back up his cock.  And down -- again.  Their mouths are both plastered in honey.  Yet Sherlock has reached over for even more; John opens his eyes as he feels the underside of his shaft being covered slowly in stickiness, and at the thought of having it sucked and lapped off he writhes impatiently against the sofa, wanting to shout orders, obscenities, accolades -- anything to make it happen faster -- but knows better.  No distractions -- he might let up -- it's agony even imagining it.  As they kiss, Sherlock is still licking gently at his lips -- and smiling down at him a bit (he had expected to be told to stop and is delighted to be mistaken; the sounds of John feeling his entire length, perineum to head, stroked and coated in honey is choice, worth remembering well).  When Sherlock lets up he closes John's left hand in his, leaving it gummy.  He runs his tongue over John's palm and shifts his body down.  John sighs through a wide smile as Sherlock closes his mouth over his cockhead.  _How.  How does he -- know -- these things -- oh yeah -- oh -- fuck -- hmm -- how did I -- get so lucky -- he doesn't -- hmmm -- believe in luck?  This is luck.  Right here.  Hmm, oh fuck -- fuck -- fuck -- you can just -- break every last plate you gorgeous thing -- eat off me -- instead -- oh my God -- how did I ever -- live -- without you -- but -- yeah -- now -- you are -- kill -- ing -- me -- oh like that -- so good -- killing me -- so good --_ Sherlock's tongue is lathing John as if he were in no hurry; John, however, is starting to feel every lick ripple through his nerves.  Broadly at first.  They reach his chest and his deep breaths disperse them -- slightly -- but when he feels the first circular strokes of Sherlock's tongue reaching the base of his cock, working further and further back, the rippling contracts; even as John tries to (tell them both to) slow it down _\-- fuck --_ he finds himself sucked, bitten and licked even harder until he is taken in and swallowed, honey and all, as his entire body jerks at the warmth and pressure of that mouth; he finds himself panting, propped up on one arm, staring down at Sherlock, half-mad, half-smiling.  He holds his hand out and Sherlock crawls onto him (his clothes, for once, considered non-essential).  _How did I ever live without this?  Why?_  It is an enormous question (though one John knows he does not ever want fully answered).   He reaches down for Sherlock's trouser buttons and pulls them open, still mostly out of breath, and asks, mid-thought, "Do you know how much?  Have you any idea?"  Sherlock nods and kisses him softly in response; he is dizzy.  His mouth is very hot, salty from John, edged round in honey.  In a moment he is straining to be calm (impossible now --) as John's warm hand closes around him and starts thrusting him, hard, his rough thumb catching and flicking against him sensually with every long stroke.  "Give me your tongue again," John says, his breath hot against Sherlock's cheek, "and let go, love.  Show me how you'd do it, hmmm?"  Sherlock's eyes drop closed and he silences the words in his throat as he kisses John, deeply, groaning softly; he rocks his hips, his cock buried in John's fist (-- _someday I will have you, I will --_ ) until he cannot stop (and what is now so close -- everything he holds back -- grows so near bursting out -- terrifyingly so --).  He comes with an abruptness that is not entirely pleasant; his heart has begun to race and hurt.  He drops against John's chest and his nerves unravel completely for a moment.  He rests his face against John's shoulder.  His eyes will stay tightly shut against the white brightness in his head for a minute more (he is too light-headed to move much, but he does not want to tell John that).  John kisses his neck gently and thinks, _How did I ever.  Live without you.  Seriously, I can't remember, and it's hardly begun.  How did I ever not have you?_  

John sighs quietly through his nose.  Sherlock finally puts up his head and looks closely at him, a question crossing his face ( _Do you in fact want to know how?_ ).  John hugs his friend affectionately. "Stay a bit," he says, "no hurry, love." 

Sherlock closes his eyes again.  The noise of his inner world is leaching at what he wants to keep largest and most intact in his mind right now:  the musk of pine honeydew on John's skin and _show me how you'd do it_.  He feels over John's chest and damaged shoulder, the contours of which he knows now by heart.  _Left behind, bleeding out.  Beautiful John.  That you love me so well.  Rare_.  He feels John take his hand; he is kissing the knuckles of each finger, lightly, in turn, as though they weren't a complete mess at all.  _Rare_.

Neither of them speak, until Sherlock remarks, "You shouldn't walk through there, John."

"No," John says.  "But I wanted to have you on the sofa for ages, don't spoil it now."

"Mmmm."

"You got it all wrong, you know."

"What did I get wrong?" Sherlock asks, almost defensively.

"That was supposed to be for your tea."

"You might have specified."

"Never."

"Do you like pine honeydew?"  Sherlock has propped his chin on his arm and is looking up at John.

"An acquired taste."

"Acquired?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  _You told me once that my sense of humour is an acquired taste but that people gag on their first bite.  Gag?  What were you implying --?_

"Not bad, we could eat it more often."

"Mmmm.  In a cab?"

"Now you're taking the piss," John says, and starts laughing.  "I mean, you are, right?  You are.  You have to be.  No, I don't even know if you're taking the piss or not, now."

"I've ruined my clothes," Sherlock remarks.

"All's fair in love and war."

"Not entirely, look."

"Have some more made, then."

"I might."  _An outing to the tailor's (or at the tailor's, however you like, Frederick doesn't mind) with you:  I'd ask you to bring your gun and tell you about the shipping heir who is (by now) tired of his over-zealous manservant.  You'd pull me behind Frederick's velveteen curtains and (-- you always say 'snog' -- why 'snog'?) you'd kindly remind me that I am yours.  But you would have to watch -- me, measured, pinned, basted in, poked and groped -- draping, John -- and the varying degrees of murder in your eyes would be a delight.  Frederick would go see to someone else and I would see to you, jealous soldier, and Frederick would know he should let us alone.  With the bolts of Merino.  Divine.  My beautiful John._  

"You should see yourself when you're smiling like that.  Really.  I would just keep you like that," John says.

 _Dizziness_.  Sherlock looks at him evenly again.  "Sometime, I'll take you to my tailor."


	38. On a plate

“Oh, speaking of formal clothes, Sherlock, I have an idea for us.  I’ll tell you later,” John says.

“You might let me go,” Sherlock answers, as he tries to sit up and pull off his trousers.  “The glass.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“I apologise for -- it.”

John is impressed that Sherlock is at all sorry about dashing retorts and a large crucible against the wall (it would be a first), but does not plan to show it.  “All right,” he says.  “Go on, then.”

From the sound of it, there is plenty of wreckage.  John sits calmly on the sofa in his pants (pointless, he knows, but the upholstery is cold) and admires the honey jar, which, surprisingly, still looks nearly full.  _Goes a long way.  Very good.  And now I know what could have happened at breakfast in Burnham Market, and yes, the hungover old birds would have asked us to leave.  Seriously.  Even more things I can’t blog about, though nobody would believe me anyway.  Fucking amazing._  

“Okay,” he hears Sherlock say.

John gets up and comes into the kitchen with his clothes draped loosely over his arms. “I wanted to take you out tonight,” he says. “But maybe you’d order something in for us?  No Thai or anything like that, though, I still can’t eat everything.” 

Sherlock is still sweeping and picking up shards of tempered glass, under the table, and throwing them into a dust pan.  “Of course,” he says.

John locks himself in the bath and has a thorough shower to scrub off the remains of the honey, the smell of which blends pleasantly with soap (and Sherlock, faintly, as well) in the steam that billows around him.  When he comes out, he is in his jeans again and asks for a t-shirt.  When he turns the one he is given right-side-out, Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a disapproving noise in his throat.  “Seams, John,” he says as he goes off toward the bathroom, waving a hand. “How can you -- _wear_ them?”

While Sherlock is enjoying a rather long bath, a delivery man rings at the door downstairs with dinner; John notes that it has come from a catering company for people with food allergies.  As he is bringing the food back into the kitchen, John manages to step on a lone piece of tempered glass, in his bare feet.  He swears and drops the food on the table.  He sits down to work the fragment out of his heel, which leaves a deep, clean wound that starts bleeding and smarting after several seconds.  He dabs at it with a paper towel.  At about the same time, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom (hair pushed back, in John’s current favourite among dressing gowns). 

“Dinner’s in,” John calls out to him, as Sherlock makes for his room.  “And bring me something to dress a cut, please, on your way.”

“Dress --”  Sherlock backs up and looks in at him.  “Oh.”

He goes back into the bathroom and brings out a metal first aid box that they had once shared, when John was bandaging and dressing knuckles, knees, cheekbones, and brows more regularly; he wonders if Sherlock is thinking about the same thing.  He doubts it, though.  His friend has got stiff and quiet, as he rummages around quickly and pulls out squares of gauze, a plastic roll of paper tape and a small bottle of disinfectant.  “All right, I’ve got it,” John says. “Thanks.”

“I missed one.  Or more.  I don’t know how.” Sherlock is looking around at the floor now, as John sets to work on his foot.

“It went under the door, it doesn’t matter.  Was there anything poisonous in those retorts?”

“No.”

“Can you get the plates?  If you still have any?”  John remarks.  Sherlock glances at him with an unambiguous expression of hurt.  “Joking,” John says.  “It’s another reason to stay in.”

“I don’t throw our plates,” Sherlock replies quietly.

“Okay, okay.  What did you get?  Smells nice.  Something dietetic?” John asks, handing the tape and disinfectant back to Sherlock, who has started reordering the contents of the metal box.

“Baked chicken breast in rosemary, basmati rice and cooked carrot and apple salad.”

“Thanks.  Could you just -- yeah, serve it for us.  And put on the kettle for tea.” 

Sherlock does as he is asked, almost mechanically; he brings out plates and cutlery; he carefully portions out the food, giving exactly two-thirds of it to John, who would comment on that needless inequity if he weren’t watching the way Sherlock is moving, instead.  Once the water has boiled he prepares a pot of tea and puts the cups on the counter top.  He fetches the honey and puts a generous spoonful of it into his teacup.  John waits for him to speak, but he seems to be completely lost in thought.  He is staring down at the honey as it dissolves in the swirling tea.

“Sherlock,” he says finally. “What’s happening.”

“Headache.”

“But not migraine?” John asks.  “Will you need triptans, love?”  

Sherlock shakes his head and gives John his tea. 

“Thanks.  Tell me if it gets any worse.”

“Okay.”

“Now you could also tell me what’s on with that murder, if you want,” John says.  “What do you know so far?”

Sherlock shrugs and sits down near John and pulls his plate closer.  He starts cutting his chicken into small pieces.  He speaks vaguely, as though the chicken were far more interesting, making the scene feel rather unnatural to John.  “Strangled, from behind, with a piece of material, perhaps a thin scarf, then bare hands, through it.  Began as a threat and ended in murder.”

“Or sex play gone wrong,” John suggests offhandedly, biting a chunk of chicken.  “What.  Can’t rule it out.”

“No,” Sherlock says; he looks troubled for a moment.  “No.  At least the autopsy report doesn’t mention any biological traces suggesting sexual contact.  Around thirty years old.  No match-up on his DNA or fingerprints, yet.   Dressed almost like you are now, in jeans and a grey t-shirt, in trainers without socks.  No wallet or coat.  Most likely died at home.  No signs of a struggle on his back or his knees which would mean he’d been strangled in the park, or outdoors.  Eight splinters in his palm --”

“Maybe that’s how he got the splinters, trying to grab onto something.”

“Yes, possibly.  But the wallet is missing.  Either stolen or it is in his coat, which he did not have on when he was killed -- indoors.  The only distinguishing mark on him, aside from moles and scars, was a small tattoo of an L in a circle, on the back of his neck, near the hair line.  An initial, maybe.  Fit, but not from sport, a manual labourer, upper body far fitter.  A light smoker.”  _Sketched him a bit, cannot show you; according to Alex I got the shading right on the arms -- the best study of the triceps so far.  Jawline was very poor, though, inverted the shading again.  I cannot see it._

“L in a circle?  Maybe a girlfriend’s initials, like O and L, or a logo?  For a band, or -- maybe a football club?  If he’s not an English bloke, his family might all be abroad and not even know he’s dead, yet.”

“Mmhmm.”

“What about his mouth.  Did you look inside?” John asks.

“No, I didn’t, only at his front teeth, briefly.”

“I look down a lot of sore throats.  And sometimes the Eastern European patients I have, like the ones that are over thirty or so, still have these sort of blackish metal fillings made of a kind of amalgamate, not tooth-coloured.  Their weak molars are covered with silver.  Or they have pulled teeth.  Jozef Kováč’s son was in last month and he still had some of those fillings, left over from childhood, and two missing molars.  Grotty.”

“Grotty.”

“You might pry open his mouth and look at his dental work.  Listen.  What if he’s an immigrant?  Like a Pole or a Czech working in construction.  You said he has splinters in his hand.  Maybe he’s in carpentry or framing?” 

“You’re brilliant.”  John has the impression that Sherlock is looking at him strangely, perhaps because his headache is giving his eyes a glassy appearance.

“Are you okay?” John asks, closing a hand over Sherlock’s.

“We’ll check it.  First thing.  I’ll text Lestrade.”

“Eat if you can.” John doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand, but pets it.  Sherlock is looking down at John's fingers.  “This is good, actually, thanks for this,” John says, gesturing at the plate.  He takes some of the carrot salad in his mouth and shrugs his approval.  He thinks over Sherlock’s seemingly arbitrary interest in congenital heart disease.  “We should eat better. We need to keep you well, too,” he says, swallowing and looking searchingly at Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything but slowly eats without a knife -- rather annoying, given the rice, but he prefers to push at it barbarically with the side of his fork instead of taking his hand back.  It feels calming to be touched; he still feels uncomfortable about the glass and even worse about John’s punctured foot.  It crosses his mind (numerous times) that he has neatly handed John several arguments _against_ moving back to Baker Street.  _On a plate_ , he thinks unhappily.

***

John and Sherlock have finished eating and they are drinking their tea quietly.  John is still holding Sherlock’s hand most of the time.  John has decided that Sherlock looks like he needs to rest; Sherlock doesn’t object, and they take their nearly-empty cups to his bed. 

“You were going to tell me something earlier relating to formal clothes,” Sherlock says to John, his eyes flicking over John’s shoulders (seams) as they sit down in the dim room together.

“Right.  There’s a dinner coming up with --”

“Your medical colleagues with whom you plan to found your clinic, I presume.”

“Yeah, a charity affair, but we’re also going because one of the blokes has got a birthday.  And.  I should bring someone.”

“An ideal opportunity to introduce them to Linda Snow, I agree entirely,” Sherlock replies.

“Nope.  Nice try.”

“Not one of my stronger areas, dinners.”

“With doctors and distinguished members of the scientific and academic communities.  A short auction, chatting, and dancing.  You’d hold your own with anyone --”

“Linda would be happy if you took her.”

“If it gets unbearably boring, you can just tell me, and....”

“And?”

“We’ll go for a snog on the rooftop, or go home.  Look.  It’s not supposed to be medieval torture, just two or three hours at the most.” John puts his teacup next to Sherlock’s bedside lamp.

“Medieval torture, John, is utterly fascinating.”

“I don’t plan to keep you in a tower,” John says.  He leans over and kisses Sherlock’s cheek.

“What?” Sherlock says.  _Referring to a fairytale maiden or tortures?_

“You heard me.” John finds that a single kiss does no justice to that face.  He kisses it more.  Soon he is kissing slowly down the side of Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock sighs quietly.  “What do you need?” John asks in his ear, and kisses it, too.   

“Just you.”

“You have me.  What else.”

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock says, and leans over to set his teacup aside on the bedside table by John's.

“Maybe you should turn in early?” John asks, putting an arm around him.  “Do you want me to stay over?  I can’t go with you to the morgue tomorrow morning, though.  I start at eight.”

“Yes, stay.”

Sherlock hasn’t slept a full night for days and feels it now; he slips away from John to stretch out on the bed.  John is not ready to think of sleep at all; he lies down next to Sherlock and holds him.  He cannot resist reaching down and untying Sherlock’s dressing gown; Sherlock lets him.  Soon John’s hand is roaming over Sherlock’s chest and stomach.  “You feel fantastic,” he says.  “Your head hurts, but.  Maybe there’s something I can do.”  His palm is circling gently over Sherlock’s hip.

“Openhanded of you,” Sherlock remarks, with a small smile. He props himself up on his side and John kisses him.

“Mad over you.  Mad,” John says.

“I’ve no particular outcome in mind,” Sherlock says. “How is your foot?”

“Foot?” John says, licking his lips.  “Fine.  You really don’t need this,” John says, edging the dressing gown off Sherlock’s hip a bit more, with a straying finger. 

“No?”

“No.  Hmmm. Maybe you can tell me something about this tailor of yours.  Savile Row?”

“Jermyn Street.  Third generation.  His name is Frederick, of German extraction, but was raised in Brazil --”

 “If I went along, would I get to see you naked on a pedestal?” John asks.

Sherlock swallows.  “Possibly.”

“Would he leave us, so I could have you there, without him in my way?”

“He -- oh.”

John’s hand closes over Sherlock’s arse.  “If I just asked him to go.  And sucked you,” John says, in a voice that to Sherlock sounds filthy but breathtaking.  “Tell you how I’d do it?  Another story that won’t ever make it to my blog.”

(John is certain he has effectively made Sherlock forget he has a headache.)

Sherlock smiles.  “Okay,” he says. “But Frederick has a pleasant dressing area, and an abundance of clients.”

“Even so, you’ll be in my mouth by the end.”  John leans forward and bites Sherlock’s lip.

Sherlock isn’t able to follow the story for long.  He soon silences John with kisses.  John’s warm, strong hands are distracting.  And insistent, like his tongue.  He gives in to them -- without another thought.


	39. Just a story

John wakes up at six to leave Baker Street by seven; he hopes to swing by his flat and change before work so he doesn’t have to show up in a t-shirt or one of Sherlock’s shirts (too elegant as clinic garb and too many fiddly, bloody buttons).  He is surprised to find himself alone in bed; moreover, he soon sees that Sherlock is already fully dressed, with a dressing gown loosely wrapped over his clothes, pacing barefoot in the living room.

“Good morning.  You were so tired,” John says to him.  “Why are you -- what are you doing?”

“Legia,” Sherlock says excitedly and grabs John by both arms.  “The tattoo on the strangled man.  You were right.  A football club.  I found it!  The logo refers to a team called Legia, from Warsaw.  He’s Polish.  Has to be.”

“So you won’t be gawking at his teeth today.”

“Oh, I will.  And he’s still in Fulham.  But now we’ll know where to send his photographs, fingerprints and DNA.  Warsaw!  We’ll ID him, it’s a matter of a few exchanges and phone calls now to trace where he was living and working, who he might have been, who might have had an interest in his death and I’ll profile his killer.”

“That’s -- yeah.  Polish.  A football fan.  I was right?”

“Yes.  You are _brilliant_.”  Sherlock kisses him.  “How is your foot?”

“I can walk on it.  How long have you been up?”

“An hour.  Maybe more.  John.  I’m leaving in fifteen.”

“I’m on call --”

“Mmmm.  Won’t see you.”

“Text me, love.  I’m going for a shower.  You’re amazing, you know.”

***

       _Three dark fillings.  Adam Pawlak, 28, from Warsaw.  Reported missing 7 mos ago.  SH_

_I feel sorry for his family. I miss you already._

***

The following day, John is standing in the delicatessen at Harrod’s.  He has chosen a good whiskey for his friend’s upcoming birthday and has drifted toward the glass cases, where he is admiring some of the cakes and sweets there (he is peckish, and they are colourful and pretty).  He decides he will bring something nice to Sherlock in the evening, and surprise him.

“Can I help you, sir?” A young clerk has noticed his growing interest in the rows of chocolates and pralines.

“Ah, yeah.  A lot of interesting choices in there,” John remarks.

“Oh, beyond doubt.  Are you looking for anything in particular?  We have a few new confections this month, for instance?”

“Just looking for a present for a friend.  What would you recommend.”

“Traditional flavours or something unconventional?”

“Unconventional, I guess.  Or -- maybe a mix of things?  Some of the more interesting ones.  What are those?  Red peppercorns and white chocolate?  Hmm.  What are those ones, there?”  John taps at the glass in two places.

“Rhubarb and aronia truffles, and ginger lemon pralines...they’re both lovely.”

John is unaware that the young clerk on the other side of the counter is also on the side of the angels.  He knows exactly who John is, from the online press; he considers himself a fan; he is discreet, however; he sees many well-known personalities.  For instance, during an afternoon shift about two weeks before, he'd seen the detective Sherlock Holmes himself, smartly dressed, staring keenly at _Charbonnel et Walker’s_ rose and violet flavoured chocolates.  He makes a far-reaching but valid assumption and advises John to choose a box of them.  John hesitates (the price horrifies him; the shirt he has on his back cost about half as much) but decides that they seem just bizarre enough that they _might_ appeal to Sherlock’s capricious sensibilities -- which he loves for all he’s worth.  So he takes them with a shrug and a quiet growl. 

When he takes his receipt from the clerk, his eyes fall on the date.  He grins.

***

After a light supper (soup and sandwiches), John cleans up in the kitchen and finally brings out the rose and violet sweets he’s brought.  He has started to wonder what they must taste like.

In the meantime, Sherlock has gone and picked up his violin bow.  He has rubbed colophony over it and the dust of it is flying around his long fingers.  John approaches him and says simply, “Sentiment.” 

Because he and Sherlock have been together for exactly one _very_ mind-blowing month.  

As soon as John has handed over the box, Sherlock sets his bow down and John finds himself being pressed awkwardly against the living room table and suffocated with fierce, wet kisses. 

“Oi!” John chokes.

“How did you know,” Sherlock says, finally.  He is delighted.  “Of all the things in London you might have chosen.  Excellent!”

John bursts out laughing, in shock.  “Variables, eh?” he remarks.  _Harrod’s hires psychics fresh out of our universities?_   He decides he should go back and shake that clerk’s hand, very soon -- though he might not get a chance.  He can hardly catch his breath after that very enjoyable and effusive onslaught.

“But did you _guess_?” Sherlock is asking, as he looks at the box again. _“How.”_

“You talk in your sleep, love,” John replies, sweetly.  He is rewarded with a rare (but very funny) open-mouthed stare.  He completely forgets that he ever hesitated -- or growled -- at all.

In a moment Sherlock has recovered.  He kisses John once more and asks, with his eyes glittering dangerously, “Did I also mention, in my sleep, that Frederick wants to fit two pairs of trousers, preferably tomorrow or the day after?”

“No, you did not mention that,” John replies, licking his lips.

“Mmmm.  Interesting.  I’m quite sure I was dreaming about it.”

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” John asks. 

“I might ask you the same.”

“How am _I_ killing _you_ , Sherlock?”

“Insidiously,” Sherlock says, dropping his voice.

“Is that so?” John asks.

“Distracting me.”

“The pleasure’s mine.”

“My world burns every time I see you.  Even in my dreams,” Sherlock says.

 _Wow._  “Really?” John says.

“Yes.”

John has learned that it is possible to be made love to in words.  Or even with a single look.  He wishes to himself now that he were better at that. 

(He has little idea how very well he’s been managing.) 

“Beautiful phoenix.” John gazes at him.  “Suits you.”

Sherlock looks humbled by that remark.  It occurs to John that he is probably not the first person who has drawn that parallel.  He hopes he hasn’t hit a nerve somehow.  He puts his arms around Sherlock.   “Beautiful,” he reiterates.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says.  Sherlock has in mind John’s plainspokenness but also his acceptance, something that Sherlock had always denied wanting or needing, but which has turned out to be one of the most valuable things in his life, with John.   He doesn’t know how to tell John that he had also remembered what day it is (he counts more things than he would ever admit), and -- that he hadn’t expected John to think of it.  

He tries. 

“That you agreed,” he says, because he still cannot always believe it.  He kisses John’s head and closes his eyes; he imagines he could melt and burn away, now, and it wouldn’t hurt at all.

“That I had a chance to,” John says, after a moment.  Because to him it will always be amazing.  _The intensity of this man,_ he thinks.  _If anyone ever tried to take this from me --_

John holds Sherlock tightly.  It is all he can do to keep from digging his nails and fingertips into his back.  He takes in a deep breath.  There really is no way to stop his feelings.  In spite of the possessiveness raging in his head, John tells Sherlock gently, “We’re turning in early.”  He kisses him and tells him to go on and wait for him.  When he is alone in the living room, he goes over and stares out the window at the dark street and tries to calm himself.  He feels like he’s been forced underwater.   _Breathe.  I can’t just.  A few weeks ago I’d never had anyone -- like that.  Never even imagined this could happen.  Amazing.  Take it easy._

Sherlock is sitting quietly in the middle of his bed, with his legs stretched out in front of him.  That someone thinks about him so much means the world to him; sometimes the idea is almost more than he can accept.  In many ways, it is easier to be disliked and ignored than to be loved, he thinks.  He considers what Linda had told him once, on the phone -- _he adores you.  You are a lucky man.  Women recognise those things well,_ he thinks.  _She would know better_.  His mind drifts for a moment; he is self-conscious of the respite he imagines is crossing his face as John walks into his room.

John doesn’t see it.  What he does see is the same concentration on Sherlock’s face as he had the moment before they’d kissed for the first time.  “You,” John says, “are -- ”

“I am what?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll think of it when I’m a hundred,” John says.  His eyes are dark and voracious, quite in contrast with the sentiment in his words. 

Sherlock’s spine grows warm.  He smiles to himself.

“What would you like,” John asks, though it isn’t a question -- it is more like a formality.

“You know what to do,” Sherlock says, looking at him carefully, as if he were uncertain.  He isn’t.

“Oh, so do you,” John says.  Sherlock might have shaken his head provocatively and played along a bit, but John has closed the few inches between them quickly and is on top of him already.  “You undress me this time,” John tells him, straddling Sherlock’s waist.  “I have another story for you.  Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes.”

John has reached down and taken one of Sherlock’s wrists.  “Buttons.  Impossible to take off quickly.  Is that the point?”

“The point is -- ” Sherlock says, nimbly working at John’s placket.  He has it pushed open in several seconds.  “I don’t know.”

“Your _cuffs_.  Finally,” John mutters, mostly at the shirt.

“Mmmm --“ Sherlock mumbles, unbuttoning John’s jeans.  He pushes them open but John doesn’t move to take them off. 

“We’d go for your fitting.  Maybe tomorrow.  I’d be behind you, in a chair.  Your tailor would go and pin you up in all the pieces.  You’d be able to see me, in the mirror.  That’s how it starts.  That’s just the beginning of it.” 

Sherlock doesn’t want to be pinned (in place, by John) and sits up carefully.  John notices it and lets him go.  They are sitting in front of each other, on their knees.

“You would be on the pedestal,” John says, and unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers.  “Properly endowed, left dresser.”

Sherlock smiles. 

“You’d be standing there with those pieces pinned and you wouldn’t move, because it would poke you, and hurt.  And he’d be working away on you, there on his knees.  Like we are, now.”  John is balanced on the balls of his feet; one heel is still bandaged.  (Sherlock tries to forget about that piece of glass he'd missed and listen.)  “He wouldn’t be paying any attention to me.  And I’d be looking at you.  I’d want to touch you.” (He puts a hand around Sherlock’s waist and runs it downward slowly.)  “I wouldn’t be able to do.  That _tailor_ would be there.  _Frederick_.  So I’d start unbuttoning my trousers.  He wouldn’t see.  But you’d see in the reflection.  You’re observant, you’d see it straight away.  Hmmm...but you wouldn’t stand it.  You’d know bloody well that I want _you_.  But I can’t have you because of _him_.  You’d know I wouldn’t be able to stop, so you’d tell him to go out.  And I’d look at you in the mirror, and you’d have to stand there and watch me get off without you.”  John has reached into his pants and pulled out his cock.  (An offering.  Accepted.)  “You wouldn’t move because the pins would stab you if you did.  Finally you’d step down and finish me off.  Wouldn’t take much.  Like now.  Yeah.  You feel how I want you?” 

Sherlock is still smiling.

“Take me there," John adds, "and, we’ll see if it’s just a story.  Oh _, yeah.  Oh, God_.”

“Oh, I know it won't be just a story,” Sherlock says, and runs his lips lightly over John’s neck.  His hand is far more forceful. 

 _“Hmm_.  Yeah, like that.  Harder.  Sherlock.   _Hmmm_.  The pins would hurt you -- but you’d take it.  _Oh, yeah_ \-- and when he’d come -- back in, he’d -- find you there, on your -- hmm, _so good_.  The pedestal.  Again.  _So good._   You’re a man of control, you’d -- wait for me.  _Hmmm_.  And I’d be right there, behind you, smiling -- _at you_.  Oh yeah.  _So good._   Like a bloody Cheshire _cat_.”  John kisses Sherlock and groans.  “That feels.  Your _fingers_.  You’re.  Oh, yeah.  Don’t stop.  You’re so -- Hmmm, you’re amazing.  Sher -- oh, _God_ \-- _oh -- yeah, so good -- I -- love you._   So much.  Sherlock.  So good, love, _so good_.  Hmmm.  Let me kiss you, love.  Let me kiss you.  You’ve no idea how much you mean to me, _so much_ , I love you so much --” 

***

                _Associations with the phoenix?  SH_

_Benu, revolution, Job’s sufferings, fidelity, justice, renewal, rebirth, victory. I love them.  Why?  Alex_

_Mostly positive associations, I presume?  SH_

_Nothing more beautiful in symbolism, honestly.  Alex_

_OK.  SH_

***

The following afternoon, John and Sherlock are in Jermyn Street, on their way to Sherlock’s tailor’s _atelier_.  John has been considering the idea of _shells_ along the way, as he peers, in passing, at various window displays.  The craftsmanship and care put into many of the clothes is quite impressive but John leans toward practicality and replaceability in his own things; in fact, he most often regards clothes as impediments or as layers of protection, against cold.  When Sherlock indicates that they have arrived at the correct address, John notes that it is a modest store front, perhaps one of the least remarkable in appearance on that street.   _But_ , thinks John, _anyone who sees Sherlock would affirm that Frederick has a master’s touch.  And most buildings are merely shells, too._      

When they enter, an elegant, white-haired man in gold-framed bifocals and a light blue shirt with unusual, rounded collar-tips and close-fit, fawn-brown wool trousers greets them warmly but formally.  John wonders privately what trouble, crime or scandal had ever befallen him -- then turns his thoughts to the continental style of his clothing, which to John looks almost Italian.   _Clothes do matter, sometimes,_ he thinks.  Off to one side, John can see the tailor’s workroom and the pedestal where he fits his clients’ suits; he reminds himself to stop licking his lips; at the moment, a middle-aged man is perched there, in a tasteful brown herringbone hunting jacket, which has newly-basted lapels. 

“This way,” Frederick says; his accented speech is pleasant and unmistakably German.  They follow him through to a second room, filled with shelves of material in bolts, a long cutting table, low wooden cabinets with multiple drawers, a changing area with lush curtains, a desk, and several mismatched but beautiful vintage chairs. “Please,” the tailor says, “I’m running a few minutes behind today.  Wait here and I will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies.

“Ah,” Frederick says.  “A gentleman left his card, Mr. Holmes.”  He approaches the desk, which appears to be dedicated to his notes, patterns and a land line; he picks up a business card from among his papers and holds it out to Sherlock between his fingers as he might a cigarette, for a light.

Sherlock’s eyes pass over the card for a half-second.  “In error,” he says.  He sniffs and looks away.

“Naturally.” Frederick slips the card into his shirt pocket. “Pardon me,” he says, nodding to them both as he goes back to his main workroom, where John hears him address the other client as he shuts the door behind him.

“Who,” John says to Sherlock, as soon as they are alone. 

“Mmmm?”

“Left his card.”

“Oh, that?” Sherlock asks.

“ _Who’s_ left his bloody card.”

“Nobody of importance.”

“Oh, ho.  I’ve heard _that_ before,” John replies sharply.

“And again, it’s true,” Sherlock says shrugging.

“Someone flirted with you?”

“Someone --?”

 _“Here?”_ John exclaims.

Sherlock is glowing now.  _This is too good to be true,_ he thinks.  _Exquisite.  It only wants for his gun --_

“Someone wanted to pick you up, here?” John says.

“But, John.”

“That’s why you find this place so sexy all of a sudden?  Who was looking at you!”

 _Divine --_ “Oh, no.  Nobody.” 

“You,” John says, grabbing Sherlock’s arm roughly, “are mine.  Wherever you are.  Or that _still_ isn’t clear?”

“Yours --”

(It is the first time in Sherlock’s life that an erotic fancy has unfolded in front of his eyes so literally.  He will consider that fact more carefully another time.  What is taking place now is definitely _not_ for show -- on John’s side.  He is truly upset.)

“Yeah, _mine_ ,” John says forcefully, and shakes him, once.  Sherlock sees that John is far too wound up to march them into a dressing area or stock room for a more discreet chat.  He is being shoved against Frederick’s desk where he can’t move freely. “Remember,” John says through his teeth, “or will I have to make you remember?”  In a second he has pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.  His fingers are curling into Sherlock’s arm where he is grasping it through his shirt sleeve.  It hurts; it will leave three bruises (he will apologise for them later, when he sees them).  He kisses Sherlock hard enough that Sherlock’s bottom lip cracks inside against his teeth and starts to bleed.  “You,” John says, pulling away, “will _not_ play with me _.”_

“I will,” Sherlock says complacently.  John is about to grab Sherlock’s arm again in warning.  But Sherlock has just taken John’s hand -- and pressed it boldly over his own erection.  John’s eyes go even darker. 

“ _Yours_ ,” Sherlock tells him.

“You,” John says.  “God, you’re hot, you drive me insane.  I could just have you now, right here.”

“Don’t be vocal about it,” Sherlock whispers, looking at the door, and then leans over and licks John’s ear, knowing very well what the effect will be.  “Someone might hear.”  John tears into his trousers with a growl. 

In Sherlock’s fantasy, they might have kissed at the start, they might have held each other, and the rest might have been less frantic and hurried, but the sensation of John’s hot mouth on him and his tongue lolling and flicking over his entire length ( _here, really happening, not a story, not just a story at all, very real, very erotic, very risky --_ _so dirty -- so indecent -- so perfect -- so perfect -- like -- that, like that, like that, perfect --_ ) is intense; he has to cover his mouth with his hand.  He tries to stop John but it is far too late and he cannot hold off anymore, either.  John has no intention of stopping at all; Sherlock comes violently with both hands clapped over his mouth and John takes him down.  Sherlock can’t look down at him without wanting to say something ridiculous; he leans back against the desk and grips the top of it with one hand to steady himself.  His ears are ringing.  The next thing he can process clearly is that John is closing his trousers for him; he zips them and smooths them out carefully.  He stands up straight, his shoulders rolled back; he looks Sherlock in the face, all soldier.  He is very much himself.  He smiles rather defiantly for a moment, and then Sherlock’s fantasy-come-very-much-to-life takes an unexpected turn.  He draws close and says quietly in Sherlock’s ear, “You’ve no idea how I love you.”  The aggression and jealousy are gone from his voice; it nearly takes Sherlock’s heart apart and John sees it.  He kisses Sherlock lightly on the cheek and goes and locks himself in Frederick’s toilet.  Sherlock flops down on an oak office chair that stands near the desk and stares at the floor.  He is quite sure they both smell and look like they’ve -- _just_ _had a sexual encounter in public.  We have, after all.  After all?_   Sherlock starts laughing quietly to himself.  _To hell with -- law things.  Madman._   He rubs his eyes and looks at his watch.  He snickers again, partially in embarrassment ( _overly reactive enthusiasm -- could not be helped_ ).  Soon Frederick’s client seems to be getting ready to leave in the next room; they are exchanging pleasantries at the outside door; the tailor approaches, knocks quietly, opens the door and peers in.  “Mr. Holmes,” he says courteously. “When you’re ready.” 

 _Ready?_  

***

Sherlock stands stock still on Frederick’s short pedestal, in a pair of charcoal gray trousers which are basted together with scarlet threads; the tailor is marking pockets, side and back, with pins and chalk.  John, who walks into the room shortly after Sherlock and Frederick, seats himself behind his friend on a small, creaky swiveling stool; he has his arms folded over his chest and is grinning at Sherlock in the full-length mirror that is situated a few feet in front of the pedestal.  Only once, John puts his hand over the buckle on his belt.  Sherlock closes his eyes for several seconds.  When he reopens them he focuses on the beautiful, old-world calligraphy on a yellowed Brazilian diploma which hangs in a frame just above said mirror ( _John said I am a man of control, though that was just a story_ \-- he tells himself, and tries not to giggle).  He takes a deep breath and straightens his back. 

 _“Genau.  Ich möchte, dass Sie für mich weiter so stehen,”_ * Frederick says to Sherlock, through several pins in his lips.

 _“Von wem war die Geschäftskarte?”_ Sherlock asks him.

 _“Von einem Klempner.  Zufällig gewählt,”_ Frederick replies blithely. 

 _“Sie sind ein Heiliger.”_  

_“Nicht heiliger als Sie, Herr Holmes.”_

Sherlock drops his eyes and winks at John in the mirror.  He looks forward to taking him home.

___________

* _German texts:_

_\- Exactly.  I would like you to keep standing just as you are._

_\- From whom was that business card?_

_\- From a plumber. Chosen at random._

_\- You are a saint._

_\- No holier than you are, Mr. Holmes._

 


	40. Of accidental significance

              _Hi Sherlock, I have an intact 32 year old body.  Molly_

_You are almost 38 but I will stop by.  SH_

***

Sherlock is seated on the sofa with Alex’s books (he still cannot look at one of them without wanting to slam it shut).  He is comparing several of his sketches of a dead man's thighs and knees to a book of anatomical drawing and trying to evaluate their foreshortening.  It is early evening but he is already in soft pajamas and a dressing gown, drinking a mug of hot tea with two generous spoonfuls of pine honeydew in it.  He has just remembered to air out the kitchen, where he had been mixing pungent hydrochloric acid and tellurium to create oxide baths of various strengths; he expects John to arrive soon.  Sherlock knows John will ask about the case of the strangled Pole and he will be able to tell him that he has already identified the man’s killer; he is in police custody.  And Lestrade had admitted he’d not known how to go forward on the case without him (again -- but he’d wanted to go out and celebrate the arrest; Sherlock had informed him that he drinks far too much -- and they’d got in a quarrel. He might leave out that part).

John knows about the strangler (Lestrade had texted to invite him out) and he wants to congratulate Sherlock in person.  He is very proud and impressed, and looks forward to hearing more details and -- congratulating him properly.   _Incredible.  He is exceptional.  Gorgeous creature, I could have you here and now.  Hmmm, your mouth -_ \- John thinks.  He is smiling at the thought of Sherlock with his hands pressed over that mouth, fighting it, trying not to make a sound, his thighs shaking -- John can still feel them.  He might have just set him on top of Frederick’s desk, he thinks, and replays the scene in his head).  As he is walking to a Tube station, he glimpses something attractive in the window at a florist’s.  After he has gone a few more steps, he smiles to himself, turns back, and goes in.

“Hi.  I would like a dark violet rose,” he tells the shop assistant, a portly brunette in rhinestone-studded red reading glasses that magnify the circles under her eyes. “Like those ones there, on display.”

“Those are only available as an arrangement,” she tells him, holding her hands up oddly, perhaps to indicate fullness.  “But you do have an eye, sir, if I may say so.  It is an old variety of garden rose which we bring in from Hampshire, known as the C --”

“Oh, right.  But I only want one.”

“They are being sold as part of an arrangement at this time.”

“Understood.  But one will do.  By itself.  You could just take it out of that bouquet,” John says, glancing at his watch.

“If I may, I’d recommend a Sterling Silver, sir, a variety that is also considered violet among roses.  A delicate dusty lilac.” 

“No lilac.  Dark violet.”

“I would have to split the bouquet --”

“Then please split it.”

“The stems are short.  And we don’t split our bouquets.”

“Sorry, but -- _split it this time.”_

“It puts me in an unusual --“

_“Call your supervisor.”_

John gets his violet rose.  It is a beautiful thing, small yet full and lush.  He brings it carefully wrapped in paper to Baker Street, but finds that Sherlock is closed in his room, talking on the phone (from the sound of it, in German; now he is chuckling darkly; it doesn’t sound like he will finish any time soon), so he puts it in a drinking glass and leaves it on the living room table.  He goes to the kitchen and has a look around. There are tubes and dishes of orangey liquid all over the table that remind him of tincture of iodine and smell ghastly.  He decides after a second glance that he will need to go back out again if he hopes to find anything nourishing to the human body, so he puts on his coat and does exactly that.

***

John returns after half an hour or so with some basic shopping, intending to make open-faced sandwiches for them both.  As soon as he walks in downstairs, he hears that Sherlock is out of his room, playing his violin.  The rapid succession of sounds coming off his bow seem to scrape down John’s spine.  He wonders what had gone wrong with Sherlock’s telephone call.  Against his better judgment, John walks up quickly and enters the flat through the kitchen; he tries to decide at what point in the song (if it can be called such) he might interrupt and say hello.  Or anything at all.  Sherlock’s eyes seem to be shut, though he is facing the window.  John wants to congratulate him on solving the case of the strangled Pole, and also kiss him.  He crosses the room and puts a hand gently on Sherlock’s back.  The playing stops.  Sherlock turns and looks at him.  He is pasty -- to John, he looks like he is about to be sick. 

“Oh, God, what?” John asks.

“Why -- this,” Sherlock says, his voice low.  He points at the rose with his bow. 

John can’t tell if he is angry or not.  “Yeah, I brought it for you earlier, but you were --”

“Alex wouldn’t have mentioned it.  No context,” he mumbles, watching John’s face. 

“Not following.   _What?”_  John has crossed his arms and stepped back.  “What --“

 _“The Cardinal de Richelieu!_ The fifty-third plate! _Not a coincidence!”_  Sherlock hisses at him. 

“Who?  I’ve no idea what you’re saying.  It’s a pun.  Violet and rose?  A joke.”

_“A joke?”_

“Because.  You won’t eat it in one afternoon, like you did the chocolates.  Yeah.  Just a joke.  And it’s.  Jesus, knock it off, will you?” He is bewildered by the way Sherlock is standing in the middle of the living room, white to the lips, staring at him like he’s about to throw his instrument against the wall.  This is all beginning to seem _far_ too random to John.  _Fifty-third -- Cardinal --?  Alex?_ He has a fleeting fear that Sherlock is high.  “Can you tell me what the hell is going on here?” John asks, trying to get a good look at Sherlock’s pupils. 

“Nnngh!” Instead of answering, Sherlock leaves John and closes himself in his room -- with the rose (it is the first living _Cardinal de Richelieu_ he has seen or smelled in nearly three decades; he can hardly bear it). 

John swears after him and goes to read a newspaper in his armchair but finds it difficult to focus on the words he is looking at, so he switches on the telly (dusty, unused) and watches part of a documentary about Kosovo with far less mind than he would normally pay it.  Understandably, he is getting wary of giving Sherlock any more surprises.  _(Ties.  Could be dangerous.  Especially ties.  Shit.)_  

A retired UN officer on the screen is describing the process of clearing cluster munitions; John sighs heavily.  At times he has the impression he doesn’t know Sherlock at all.  _He is_   _a potential_ _minefield._   _Exactly that.  Of traumas, associations, God-knows-what with former lovers -- and all those experiences I know fuck-all about._   _Who has loved him before, who’s kissed him, who’s touched him?_ John grits his teeth.  _Who’s hurt him, and how?  Where do these reactions come from?_ He wonders about it more often than he would like to.  John has his secrets, but they seem more incidental to him somehow.

***

By the end of the film, John thinks he might know why Sherlock had reacted strangely to getting that rose and he’s decided it is a good time to go straighten things out; he knocks gently on Sherlock’s bedroom door, and hears a flat “yes, John,” from within.  When John looks in on Sherlock, he sees his friend in bed with his laptop on his knees; he is scrolling through abstracts from _Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine_.  He looks completely normal, though John knows that cannot possibly be the case.

“I’ll want the guest list of the charity event you asked me to attend with you,” Sherlock says to him.

“Uh, what?  I don’t have --“

“Or the organisers’ names.”

John exhales.  “Yeah, okay.  I’ll ask.  So.  You haven’t thrown out the rose,” John says, sitting down near Sherlock and gesturing at the violet bloom, which is now standing in the drinking glass by Sherlock’s bedside lamp. 

“Why do you think I would throw it out.”  Sherlock has started typing.  “I will need the list by Tuesday.”

John stares at him.  “Maybe you’d just explain what you were on about earlier?  I don’t understand.”

“You _will_ understand if I tell you I don’t want to share it with you now,” Sherlock replies.

That hits John hard.  “Ha.  I see,” he says with annoyance; a moment later he realises that Sherlock is referring to his own border-drawing, over dinner, in Norfolk; he feels defeated.  “So I don’t even deserve an explanation?” he asks.

“Deserve?” Sherlock’s eyes narrow, seemingly at the screen.  “That question concerns _entitlement_ , which cannot function without clear _rules_ , which are not in place.  A basic in any contract.  Social, legal, or interpersonal.  As for _deserving_ , striving alone is by no means considered grounds for recompense, as a quick look into any church doctrine will --“

 _“Shut up,”_ John snaps.  “Don’t you dare.  No.  You’re making it -- far harder to say what I have to say.”

Sherlock sets his teeth and looks over at him.

“If it’s about me giving you that rose, or even the honey and sweets, there’s something I should tell you.   Sorry.  I don’t, uhm.”

John is trying to find the right words.  Sherlock is now observing that process with full attention. 

“Don’t what,” Sherlock says.  He seems to be watching for something in particular, which is disturbing to John, because he is taking an important personal risk (from his point of view) in what he is about to say.

“I don’t think of you as.  Hmm.  Give me a second.”  John takes Sherlock’s hand and strokes it with his thumb.  “I don’t think of you as my, uhm.”

“Your what.” Sherlock’s throat is hurting now. 

“My woman.”  John looks at him with his brows slightly furrowed.  He makes an impatient noise in his throat, at himself.  “I don’t.  It’s different.  Actually, in many ways you’re far better.  Sorry, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.  Look.  Sherlock.  I told you you’re beautiful, as well, but I don’t mean like -- a woman.  Maybe you think I see you in that category.  Or, maybe you felt like I was treating you like my pet.  But I don’t think of you as more -- _feminine_ than me.  Is this making any sense?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.  He is comforted and also pleased by what he has just heard.  Because when John is touching him and admiring him with shameless want in his eyes, Sherlock does not think of himself as _feminine_ , either. 

By any means. 

He doesn’t want to say anything inane in response, however.  _Thank you_ seems inappropriate here, as does _Of course I’m far better, for God’s sake_.  He keeps his lips pressed shut.

“All right.”  John is still tense.  “That said,” (he looks meaningfully at the rose on the bedside table) “it was just association, of violet and rose.  I see you in a lot of things, like, I don’t know.  Arsenic.  Or -- butane torches.  Put that laptop down?”

“Why a _Cardinal de Richelieu_ rose?  Why _that_ rose?” Sherlock asks.

“Impulse.  And I almost got in a row in the shop over the bloody thing, they didn’t want to let me have it.”

Sherlock finally smiles.

“But do you even like it?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.  “It has a distinct smell and its colour is absolutely unique.  I hadn’t seen one for many years, and it surprised me.  Thank you.”

“Okay, you’re welcome.”  John clears his throat.  He is not content with that answer.  What he'd seen in the living room had not resembled surprise at all.  “And, anything else?”

“Yes.  Why a phoenix?”

“Hmmm?  Oh.  About you?  Because of the burning -- you were talking about burning,” John explains.

“Oh.”

“I can see it sometimes.  But also because.  Because of your loyalty.  And, as I said before, beauty.  And also, that you’ve come back.  From the dead, I mean.”  John is running his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand again.  He is looking down at it too closely, Sherlock notes.  “More than once.  In fact.  And, uhm.  Yeah.”

These thoughts have become too heavy to John.  He realises that he will not finish.  He kisses Sherlock instead and Sherlock shuts his laptop and blindly puts it aside. John has wrapped his warm hands around his face and neck.  This time, his kisses are soft and tentative; they feel like questions.  Sherlock is listening carefully to the sound of John’s breathing; he can hear and feel the tension in every kiss.  John is anxious.  But Sherlock knows he is loved.  To madness. 

***

Another day, when the rose has already faded, John will find a small, hardback book full of hand-drawn botanical sketches under his keys, with a slip of scratch paper stuck in it about halfway through; when he picks it up and opens it, he will see a watercoloured illustration of a luxuriant _Cardinal de Richelieu_ rose, in a child’s hand, dated 1984; the accidental significance of his present will become clearer to him and he will take a pencil and write a few words on the scratch paper; he will leave it with the book on Sherlock’s laptop.

_Lush, exotic, rare, memorable, unique, and gorgeous._   
_Then it turned out there was a rose of similar qualities_   
_and I had to have it, too. I love you madly._

Sherlock will finally bring himself to read it later that afternoon; he will decide to close John’s note in with the 53rd plate, next to his Mum’s rose.  And he will lock them in his desk drawer.


	41. Mixing and mingling

 

_Das Daumenkino ist schrecklich schön.  SH  *_

_Gefällt's dir?  Alex_

_Unbeschreiblich.  SH_

_Mir gefiel es, wie Träume sich bewegten.  Begann ich Bewegung zu erforschen.  Alex_

_Ich bin zu ungeduldig.  SH_

_Vielleicht.  Alex_

_Ich habe ein wenig geschummelt - ein Screenshot aus Skype verwendet.  Statt zu singen.  SH_

_OMG, well done.  Thank you!!! :) So how did you know it’s my birthday?  Alex_

_I probably shouldn’t ask.  Alex_

_This is so nice of you, I can’t believe it.  Alex_

_Stay well.  SH_

__________________

* _German texts:_

The flip-book is dreadfully beautiful.  SH

                Do you like it?  Alex

Indescribably (much).  SH

                I liked the way dreams moved.  I began exploring movement.  Alex

I am too impatient.  SH

                Perhaps.  Alex

I cheated a bit - used a screen shot from Skype.  Instead of singing.  SH

 

***

John is seated at a table with five of his friends; they are in a grand setting -- it is a hotel ballroom which is filled with twenty round, elegantly decorated tables, each seating six; the guests are mingling and networking; some are helping themselves to the drinks and indulging in a bit of dancing before the meal begins; there is a small orchestra playing in one corner of the room.

Sherlock had promised to come after he'd finished a small job for a client. 

“And where is your other half, John?” his orthopaedist friend's wife, Sandra, asks.  She is glancing at her watch, just like John would like to about now.

“Running a bit late tonight, the suburban trains, you know.  Excuse me,” John says, flashing a small smile and getting up from the table to go to the toilet.  He wants to text Sherlock to ask where he is but decides not to push things; the introductions will come soon enough.  

 _Sherlock Holmes, my -- yeah._  As John is washing his hands and staring into the mirror, he tries to break down the evening -- occasionally he is grateful for the counselling sessions he’s sat through at the veteran’s health centre; he can piece things out and think them through -- _though putting them back together and dealing with them is another kettle of fish_ , he thinks.  _What am I worrying about.  Right.  That he’ll insult someone.  Deduce something nasty.  On purpose, because he is bored.  He might.  Someone might punch him.  I might.  That he’ll be quiet and drum his fingers the whole time.  That someone will expect me to dance.  Or someone will flirt with him in front of me.  That people will ask tactless shit about our home life.  Deal with it.  Paul will shit himself, he just tried to set me up with that pharma rep.  Will and Sandra should be okay.  Marv doesn’t care.  Shit, I might have worn a better tie.  Not bad._ He adjusts his cuff buttons (borrowed, again) raises his chin, and huffs at his reflection one more time before going back out. 

When he returns to the banquet area, he sees immediately that Sherlock is approaching the (correct) table; he reaches it several seconds before John.  He is standing, looking splendid with his hands behind his back; he has just managed to greet the group; he is already looking them over carefully as they acknowledge him politely.  Katie (the gynaecologist's wife) has reached for her empty glass -- apparently mistaking him for wait staff.  He doesn’t look the part, however.  John takes him in -- he is dressed formally, but in charcoal gray and not in pure black; he has eschewed a tie in favour of a single, beautiful button in his lapel with a rose-cut emerald in the centre; John recognises it as a gift from a wealthy South American tradesman (who had consulted Sherlock for advice about thwarting racketeers, several years before).  He has tamed his hair and looks natural but impossibly elegant all at once; he is perfectly -- himself.  Gorgeous.  It is all the easier for John to open his mouth and say, “Everyone, I would like you to meet Sherlock Holmes.”  They smile up (mainly at John) politely and expectantly, and he adds, “My boyfriend.”  He feels that several other people behind him at another table have turned and looked at them, as well.  For a moment, it seems that the tension coming off of Sherlock (if harnessed) could illuminate the room.  John has an impulse to touch his arm but holds off.  “Sandra and Will, Paul and Katie, and Marv,” John says, indicating them in turn.  He clears his throat and they sit down at their places; Sherlock watches (seemingly) objectively as John’s colleagues look him over with varying (and revealing) degrees of surprise.  Sherlock sees that while they fall very much in line with what he’d expected, none of them had been expecting _him_. 

Paul is the first to speak.  “Well, get the man a drink, John,  what are you waiting for?”  Sherlock’s eyes flick over him.   _Gynaecologist with a mother complex -- interesting.  Or not, no.  Schematic.  Recreational cocaine user, adrenaline junkie but -- lazy.  Sexually frustrated in his own marriage, bouts of impotence.  Gamer.  Untreated gland disorder, profuse sweating, paranoid._

“And I thought you were just a waiter,” Katie is saying.  

_Katherine -- fancies herself young at heart.  Lip injections, botox, a nail biter who wears acrylic tips, bleached teeth.  Liar and swinger.  Blonde university boys.  We’ve had the pleasure.  Let me remind you...._

“Pimm’s number 1, double gin, orange instead of lemonade, no mint,” he says, as he nods to her and looks away.  Her mouth shuts in a clack and quiver of collagen as her eyes widen.

John looks from her face to Sherlock’s.  “Oh, ha,” he breaks in, “and you wonder why you mistook him for a waiter.  Sherlock, how about a drink?  I mean, for you?”  Sherlock shakes his head (he has other plans for the evening).

“You’re a detective, though, aren’t you?” Sandra asks. 

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock replies.  _Clever Sandra.  Sign language -- deaf family member -- a sibling close in age, not a parent.  Dances well.  Trained architect?  Wasted as a kept housewife.  Stomach disorders.  Realist.  Attracted to John -- my sympathies, madam.  The linchpin of the entire table, however, and the only one whose favour really matters._ “And you -- _Cassandra_ \-- are an excellent dancer.” 

She smiles and tips her head.  “Not bad,” she replies ambiguously. 

John has just cleared his throat.  She glances over at him.  Sherlock sees that Will is looking at him with friendly curiosity.  _Will.  Orthopaedist.  History buff, bookworm, a flair for acting, had an elderly father, sings well.  Religious.  Snorer, insomniac.  Jealous, like John._ “I’m Will,” the man says, simply.  “Nice to meet you, Sherlock.”   _An honest and reliable partner in John’s clinic._

“Marv,” says the last man, whose birthday they are meant to celebrate tonight.  He has several gift bags perched by his chair (one is whiskey from John).  He is a paunchy, small gentleman with thick glasses.   _Divorced, classic rock, loner, piano player, model railroader, likes horrors, no -- horror comics -- a dermatologist?  An excellent sense of irony._  Sherlock smiles at him politely.

Soon a speech is made, dinner is served and John watches out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock starts to cut a fillet of salmon into tiny pieces with far more attention than necessary.  John’s stomach flutters and he takes a long sip of the gin and tonic Will had got for him as a joke, instead of the mineral water he’d wanted.  “Another mercifully undersized portion of salmon for us, I sense a pattern,” he says quietly to Sherlock, who shudders very slightly, because he’d been thinking nearly the same thing.

***

Some time later, Sherlock approaches John, Marv and Will at the drinks bar, with Sandra on his arm. 

“May I have the pleasure of dancing with your wife?” he asks Will.

“Should I be agreeing to this, John?”  Will quips.

“Probably not,” John says.  “But neither of us can dance, I say we turn them loose.  So, there’s no way in hell that was enough to cause a comminuted fracture.  Not an accident.”

“Bone cancer, turns out, bloody cancer.  Referred her to Kevin upstairs this afternoon,” Will says, nodding at his glass before raising it in John’s direction.  “Cheers.”

Sherlock leads Sandra away.

“Do you know Doctor Robert Kingmann?” he asks her.

“Mostly by sight.  Will knows him a bit, he’s an excellent golfer, they say.  He’s over there, standing a few feet away from John.  Erm, and Will.  In the dark blue bow-tie, balding a bit in the back.”

“Introduce me to him after we dance.  For now, do tell me in which part of France you spent your gap year.”

***

“And who was the lady you were dancing with just now?”

Two more cocktails later, John has finally caught up with Sherlock, who has become unexpectedly sociable.

“A professor of cardiology from New Delhi, a fascinating woman -- and her husband breeds whippets," Sherlock tells him.

“And how many cardiologists are you planning to consult tonight?  I saw you talking to Kingmann," John remarks.

“I plan to speak to four.  A fifth stayed home tonight with her daughter.  Chicken pox,” Sherlock says absently, waving a hand.

“And why cardiologists?”

“Might be useful.  Where is Sandra?”

“Powdering her nose.  Enjoying yourself?  I think you actually are.  And nobody’s even _dead_.”

“Enjoying.  Not the word I’d have chosen.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow; they are sweeping over the scene behind John’s left shoulder.

“You can admit it, you know.”

“I’m here because you asked me to be.  I am your _boyfriend_ ,” Sherlock says with far too much irony.

John's tongue is loose from the gin.  “Right.  Got a better word?  Share it.  Partner?  Lover?  Date?”  John raises his eyebrows in annoyance.  “I don’t know --   _suitor?_ Do we go back to _colleague?”_  

“ _No_.”  Sherlock is still looking around the room, _for the next bloody cardiologist_ , thinks John.  (He is, in fact, correct.)

“So what did you call the others, then?” John lets slip. 

Sherlock sniffs; he walks away.  His haughty manner remains very much present in John’s mind, however, and begins to suffocate him; he decides he will lay off the drinks for the rest of the evening.  He goes back to the table to talk to Will and Marv some more and asks the next waitress he sees for a cup of coffee.

***

When John catches sight of Sherlock again, he is dancing with Sandra.  They look lovely together; Will admires his wife from across the room as she tosses her head back and laughs.  Sherlock is being charming; he seems to have chosen her for the evening.   _Yeah, he can be very appealing to whoever he has chosen.  He can be what he wants to be for whomever he likes.  For me, too.  Sherlock, who were they, and according to you, what are we, because you never tell me how you see it.  We have to agree on the terminology or something.  Or just leave it to everyone else, because they'll talk anyway._  

"Somewhere along the line I missed something," Marv is saying, "That one got past me," he remarks, indicating Sherlock with a nod. "Guess I was gone that day."

"Me too," admits Will, tipping his nearly-empty glass in his fingertips. "Didn't know, John, but not that it's any damned business of mine, right?  Cheers."

"Cheers," John says, and smiles stiffly into his teacup.

An auction of paintings and bronze figures is planned, the proceeds of which will be given to a geriatric care facility for diagnostic equipment.  John would like to go home directly after it.  The fact that he is the one needing to escape early and not Sherlock should be amusing to him, but at the moment it is not.  He approaches Sherlock and Sandra and is about to open his mouth to interrupt them when Doctor Robert Kingmann taps Sherlock on the other shoulder; Sherlock turns to him.  Sandra smiles at John.

"I don't know where you found him, but you are both -- to be envied," she gushes, her eyes sparkling (with the champagne she has been drinking, he hopes).

"Thanks," John says.  "I think we're going soon, though."

“But I'm needed somewhere else.  It was a pleasure, Mr. Holmes.  So.  Here you are," the cardiologist is saying somewhat apologetically. "My card.  Arrange with my secretary to have a slightly longer consultation and she’ll work you in.”

"Thank you," Sherlock says cordially. "And consider rethinking your swing regime with the fairway woods."

"We'll try that out on the course."

"We will," Sherlock replies.

 _I am going to take you home and punish you with hundreds of kisses, you crazy creature,_  John is thinking.   _Golf with Kingmann, and lie angles with me...._

John takes Sherlock aside.

“You pissed me off earlier, to be honest, but.  Sorry.  Look, can we go soon?  I’ve been wanting to be with you and it's driving me insane.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Why are you talking to heart specialists?” John asks.

“Collecting opinions.”

“But.  Am I missing something?  Because your heart is -- uhm.”  _The most valuable thing I have in my life.  Damn it._

“No,” Sherlock says, and sighs.  He looks restless now. “Take leave of your friends and I’ll look for a way to access the rooftop.”

“What?”

“You said that if it were to get unbearably boring --“

“No, I think we’ll go home after the auction's over.”

“You look very nice tonight, John.  You might consider wearing more suits.”

“Really?” John asks.

“I would have it -- taken in. In a couple of places. Though...that’s nothing Frederick wouldn’t be able to help us with,” Sherlock purrs.

“Oh Jesus.  Let’s go say goodnight to my friends.”

Sherlock smiles. 

They will leave before the auction.

 


	42. Sherlock's story

John and Sherlock are in the middle of the commonplace act of getting ready for bed.  Their formal clothes have been unceremoniously removed and put aside and they have both washed up for the night.  John has finished drinking the last of a glass of water and sets it on Sherlock’s bedside table; he is relieved that the evening had gone so well.  He wants to comment on it and praise Sherlock but decides it would come across as insulting.  Sherlock, in the meantime, is brushing his teeth carefully and thinking about the four contacts he has just managed to make; he decides he will share his opinions about John’s colleagues another time, when John (inevitably) brings them up in the context of his future clinic; he will.  John might also mention his dancing, _which he must have noticed, for God's sake --_

“Don’t you dare put on any dressing gown,” John remarks, as Sherlock enters his bedroom and reaches toward the back of his door.  He is cold, and he says so.  “Come.  Hmmm, closer.  What was all that about Pimm’s with Katie, by the way?”

Sherlock has climbed into his bed next to John, who puts an arm around him.  “Oh.  Her favourite drink is very similar to a Victorian garden cocktail but muddied.  Too much _gin_ ,” he adds, looking at John significantly.

“Okay, you did _not_ deduce that from her lipstick colour or the height of her shoes.  She almost fell off her chair.  You can’t possibly know her, can you?”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, and shrugs.  “She frequents a certain swingers’ club in central London.”

“No.  Really?  Seriously?  Oh, God.  But how would you know about that?  You’ve gone to --?”

“Yes, when I was tracking a serial rapist.”

“Rapist?  When was that?” John asks, his eyes widening.

“Just over six months ago.”

“I don’t remember that.  You didn’t mention anything about _rape_ ,” John exclaims.

“You weren’t spending your nights with me then,” Sherlock answers.

“Hmm.  Not funny.”

“Oh please, John.  I mean I was working nights as a _barman_.”

“A barman?  I can see that, actually.  I guess you’d be rather good.  Transferable skills, and all.”

“Apparently I was,” Sherlock says.

“So did you catch him?  The rapist?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a single rapist.  There were a few of them, and not all of them were men.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.  One of the waiters was offering a special service -- spiking drinks with ketamine, for a large tip.  It was all pre-arranged on a chat site.”

“That’s -- bloody dodgy.  Disgusting.”

“Yes.”

John bites his lip.  “Hmm.  Put you in a position, too.  I mean, someone could’ve thought you were the one putting it in the drinks.”

“Oh, he did try to deflect the blame on me, but that was to be expected.”

“What else did you get up to before I started spending my nights with you, I wonder?” John asks, smiling boyishly at Sherlock, who dislikes the implications of that question while finding John very appealing at the same time.

“Deleted it.  You might do the same,” he says simply.

John runs the knuckles of one hand over Sherlock’s cheek.  “Should, true.”  He feels like having a very long and slow kiss to start what he hopes will be a very warm night for them both.  

“Juniper,” Sherlock says, turning his head away. “Don’t much care for it.”

“But I care for you,” John replies.

“I know.”

“I see.  Put off, then.”

“It merely interferes with other scents.  And scents are expressive.”

John sighs.  “So tell me something about you and -- scents,” John says, knowing well enough that it is to Sherlock what his own mirrored wardrobe doors have been to him (of late).  “I think you smell things I don’t.”  _Croydon._

“Possibly because of where they are located.  Turn over,” Sherlock tells John, guiding him onto his side, and carefully curling up behind him as he does when he is falling asleep.  “It’s not pleasant out and about, London being the cesspit it is.  But here --” he inhales, and presses his lips and tongue on the nape of John’s neck.  (John shivers; Sherlock does not usually do that when going to sleep against him.)  “ _Very pleasant_.”  Sherlock hears John’s breath quicken; John is still just tipsy enough to be more responsive to touch than usual; Sherlock has been role playing the entire evening for various people and in his final act (which is not really an act) he will want to see if John is fully biddable to being held and kissed this way; it appears that he is not.  Yet.  The scent of John, intensified by his taste, affects Sherlock like little else; he imagines he could hold him this way for -- days.  He starts to lick and rub his lips over the back of John’s neck very slowly.  John is uncharacteristically quiet.

As much as Sherlock dislikes talking in bed ( _distracting, haphazard_ ), he finds he has been enjoying John’s recent stories, nearly as much as John enjoys telling them.  He looks down at his friend, who seems to be waiting for him to say something, and decides it might be the right time to tell one of his own; there is something he would like to get across to John, though he is not an accomplished story-teller.   _I might have rehearsed this_ , he thinks.  _But.  The flesh is weak..._

“John,” Sherlock says, stopping to lick several circles on John’s neck gently.  “Would you like me to tell you a story?”

“Oh yeah,” John says.  “I would.  That feels _really_ good.”

“Does it?” Sherlock says, reaching around and running his fingertips over John’s chest as his tongue flicks upward toward John’s hair.

“Oh yeah.  So what is -- it about?  _Hmm_ , your tongue.”

“It’s about me, looking for a man.” 

Sherlock feels John’s reaction to that in his breathing.  He pauses and then begins, reflectively:  “First, an anecdote.  When I was a child, I got lost at a bazaar.  We were on holiday in Istanbul, and Mycroft had some flossed halva that he didn’t want to share with me, so he left me in the stalls with the carpets and told me to find one that flies.  Prat.  One of the carpet peddlers was kind enough to tell me straight away that there weren’t any flying carpets in Istanbul because they’d all flown off to America, so I ran off to look for my brother in a crowd.  The colours, sounds, and smells, John.  It lasted all of twenty minutes, I’m sure, though at the time it seemed like more, and after that I would try not to lose sight of him for long.  Eventually, though, it became an imperative to _escape_ his eye, and stay lost enough to do so.  It still is.”  (Sherlock is aware that John is being followed and photographed again; he will tell him who to watch for soon; he reminds himself not to lose the point of the story -- because John is listening carefully.)  He smiles against John’s neck and seems about to kiss it, but continues speaking instead.  “Not surprisingly, perhaps, one of my worst nightmares, short of your death, is losing you in a crowd.  I’ve had it for years, in fact.  In my dream there’s an army of strangers, arranged just so, as to be completely impermeable.  They block my way and hold me off with their sheer numbers.  And I can’t see you or touch you at all.  It’s an irrational reaction to the natural randomness in things, of course.” 

 _Mortals like me call that ‘a fear of the unknown’_ , thinks John, and holds his breath as Sherlock’s hand tickles down his waist and rests on his hip.  He can feel Sherlock’s cock, warm and long, against his arse.

“It’s transparent enough as dreams go,” Sherlock remarks, as if it were an aside to a deduction.  “But sometimes to stop it I try to envisage it differently.  It can be a game, in fact.  I imagine that someone wants to test me to see if I can find you, in a crowd of strangers.  When I win, I can have you back, of course.  If you like I’ll tell you how I’ve imagined at least part of that game.”

“Okay,” John says, interested, though he really has no idea what he might hear.  For now, he feels that Sherlock is sniffing him.

“Imagine my eyes are covered,” he says.  “That I am blindfolded.  If someone said they’d brought _you_ to me, how do you think I would determine if it were true?  Perhaps I would convince them to let me touch only one thing, and say if it were yours?”  (John giggles.)  “Oh, no John, they wouldn’t be so generous about it.  No.  For instance, they might give me a man’s feet to touch, of similar size to yours.  And ask me to identify them, hoping to trick me.  But I would know by the curve of each of the toes if they were yours -- nearly symmetrical, toes smallish but very flexible, and none too long.  They might let me touch someone's leg, to establish if it’s yours, though I would know if it was by the soft hair of it, the small scar you have from football cleats above your left ankle, and your muscular calves.  If they gave me a thigh, I would be all the more certain.  I’ve kissed them, and I know them well, and they are also muscular, in perfect proportion to the width of your knees.  It goes without saying that if I were given a man’s knee to touch, I would know if it was yours or not by the kneecap, alone.”  Sherlock is rubbing John’s thigh with the palm of his hand, as if he were measuring it in some way.  “Hips.  Lean and slim.  I would know them by touch, but also by the smallest movement, because _nobody_ moves like my John, I would tell them.  Stomach?  Obvious.  Chest.  Shoulders.  I know them, it is impossible to trick me where they are concerned.”  Sherlock says all of this while his hand slowly cups John’s arse.  Firmly.  “Your neck.  The place it meets your jaw, near your ear.  I would know it by touch or scent, of course, if they let me close enough to you.”  (His cock is very hard now, pressed against John, a bit wet, not far from his own hand.  John is listening to him keenly for cues about what is going to happen next.)  “But all of this is redundant.”

“It is?” John croaks. 

“Yes.  All they would have to do is give me every man’s nape.  One by one.  And I’d find yours.  I would know your scent anywhere.”  He puts his nose and lips on John’s neck again.  “And if they really had you there, and it wasn’t just a sadistic ruse, I _would_ find you.  And choose you.  _This one_ , I would tell them.  This one.”  He puts out his tongue for another taste.  “This man is -- mine.”  It is all he can do not to push himself harder against John now.  He pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, knowing John cannot see his face.  “There is nobody in the world like him.  His body is electric and when he touches me it goes through me like current.  To have anyone else would be _like kissing the dead_.”

And now he is silent.  The story is over.  John turns around to face him. “I love you,” he says.  He wants Sherlock to kiss him, juniper aside.  They look at each other for a few long moments more, before he feels Sherlock catch his breath, as if he has come to a conclusion to his story that he does not verbalise.  His lips are warmer and more hesitant than usual; he seems to be holding something back.  (He is.)  Their kisses begin to demand expression of their hands as well; they touch each other’s faces, necks, arms (carefully -- John is gentle, aware of himself.  He wants to have everything again, shred Sherlock to pieces, take him. _Slow down, slow down --_ and he leads; Sherlock is also cautious; he has felt John’s reserve).  Sherlock closes his eyes.   John takes them both and moves slowly against Sherlock, who is biting his own tongue.  He almost misses the fact that John is trying to kiss him; he is completely absorbed in the warm friction of John’s hips, thighs and cock, against his.  John grips Sherlock’s arse and thrusts as he strokes Sherlock’s tongue with his.  Soon he has to catch his breath and turns his face away; Sherlock reopens his eyes; they fall on John’s hand, between them.  He cannot stop himself from saying, “Oh.  Perfect.” 

“Oh, yeah,” John says, against his lips. “Yeah.  You feel amazing.”

_You, not me.  Your soft, but demanding tongue.  The way you kiss me with your entire body.  Determined, loving, wanting me so impatiently.  Talking.  I would be lost if you didn’t, I wouldn’t know.  What to do.  Your rhythm.  I feel it now when I watch you move, it is enough to see you walk.  Your sounds and words, all about me, now.  They should be about you.  How you would respond to me, inside of you.  Your breathing would rush through your kisses.  You would breathe for us.  I forget to breathe.  I can hardly feel anything beyond what your hands feel -- like that, so hard, like that -- against -- yours.  You are close.  I am nearly done -- John, I am nearly done._

“John.  I --’m --“

“Let go, love.”

_And you are close.  Your pulse -- Let go, you say.  Just let go.  Enjoy it, love, enjoy yourself, let go._

_I have._

_You are electric.  Current.  I love you, beautiful man, I would find you anywhere._

_My John._


	43. Quite remediable

Fingers drumming, eyes fixed in front of him, Sherlock is simmering in his armchair.  Mycroft, seated across from him, offers a few remarks about retired Sergeant James Kerwin Barrows, whose service records Sherlock would like to acquaint himself with.  Mycroft is visibly uninterested in the subject of an undecorated, dying war hero.  He has come to talk to Sherlock about Vienna.

A text arrives on Sherlock’s phone; it is on the living room table, well out of reach.  Sherlock blocks the urge to go and look at it.  Mycroft has registered that; he rolls his eyes, sighs (loudly) and continues in the same vein as he has for the last ten minutes, poking at Sherlock.

“You fancy yourself a logician but you have no sense of proportion.  It’s pathetic.Involvement _,_ need I remind you, is messy and _costly_ ,” Mycroft remarks, looking evocatively at Sherlock, whose lower lip twitches in annoyance.  “He may find he has grounds to question your steadiness, and then?”

“That sounds like an attempt at compulsion.  Suits you well.”

“I haven’t acquired a new obsession,” Mycroft retorts.  “Of late.”

“True, yours are all deep-seated and irremediable.  Your point?”

Mycroft hands Sherlock a file.  “The one in question is _quite_ remediable.”

Sherlock opens it and sees four slightly blurred photographs of himself and John kissing with abandon in the back of a cab (for the first time, a few days before -- exhilarating; their blood had run warm after a successful case.  _Bloody amazing, you got it all in less than three minutes.  How do you always do these things?  Watching you is just.  Always.  Come here, hmm, God, hmm, you drive me mad, love --_ ).  The last of them is particularly striking, in which John’s left hand, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder, is the only part of the picture in clear focus.  A compelling shot, charged and tense.  Sherlock likes it very much.  _Bedside drawer.  No, mantelpiece._  

“All for me?” Sherlock asks Mycroft in a bored voice, though his brother’s menacing tone has put him on edge; he has never gone as far as to threaten him so openly through John before. 

“That depends on you.  He _will not_ accompany you to any of the meetings in Vienna or Budapest.” Sherlock’s expression drops and he sets his teeth.  Mycroft raises his eyebrows in warning against interruption.  “There will be _no_ _contact._  And you will _not_ reveal your location.  You insist on bringing your soldier with you, _but you will keep him in the dark.”_

Sherlock glares. 

“You will not inform him of the risks that you are undertaking because he has more than a streak of foolishness where you are concerned, and this mission is of _international_ importance.  Both of you, in fact, are entirely expendable, but I don’t think you would be prepared to part ways with him in Vienna, _of all places_ , would you?  No.  You know what to do.  And I don’t wish either of you any unhappiness, after all.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond when Mycroft stands and takes his leave:  “Between deliveries of fresh subjects to Bart’s morgue, do put down your pencil and arrange a meeting with Lawrence at the _Glen Burns_.  You will find it instructive.  Good day, brother.”

Sherlock is furious and lightheaded all at once.  He steeples his fingers in front of his lips for several minutes before he goes to retrieve his phone and read John’s text.

                _I want to take you out tonight at 7.  I’m on call after 10._

Sherlock paces in front of the window with his hand over his throat.

_Visit you?  SH_

_Yes come send some patients home.  It’s crowded :)_

 

Sherlock comes to John’s clinic and wordlessly enters his office between his 1:45 and 2:00 patients; he has a pair of sandwiches in a small bag. 

“Oh, hey,” John says, looking up at him from his desk.  His whole face and body seem to follow a smile that grows brighter as he stands and takes the bag that Sherlock is holding out to him.  John feels cared for -- Sherlock can see that.  He can’t give much more right now; he is disturbed after his conversation with Mycroft; he wants to hold John for a moment because he can’t think.  Or, no -- he _can, perfectly well_ , but his thoughts are upsetting.  “Oh, great, I’m famished.  Thanks.  And how many are still out there in the waiting room?” John asks.

Sherlock puts his arms around John and rubs his nose against his ear.  He kisses it.  “Four.”

“Try harder next time.  Dinner at seven, then?  I heard about a really nice --”

“No.”

“Hmm.  No?  Sure?  But come see me later, yeah?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock isn’t letting go of John.  John runs a hand over his back.  “So what’s on?”

“Shopping.”

“Ha!  Is the sky falling down out there today?” John asks.

“I’m out of ammonium nitrate.”  Sherlock steps back from John. 

“What.  You can’t just go out and -- that’s got to be illegal.”

“Mmhmm.” 

“Nitrates stay at Baker Street tonight with all the other --“  John doesn’t finish that, because the glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes has gone out instantly.  He is thinking about something else.  John closes his mouth as Sherlock kisses his forehead, and quickly goes out -- the way of the small spot of light he’d brought and lost, it seems.  John shakes his head and goes back to his desk to wait for his next patient.  He will try to relight those beautiful eyes in the evening, if he can.

                                                                                                    ***                                                                                                   

Several hours later, Sherlock and Alex are corresponding on Skype; Sherlock has sent photographs of three sketches and Alex has offered some suggestions on their shading and proportions.  He thanks Sherlock again for his portrait; he is touched that Sherlock would even bother to draw him, and is pleased with the likeness he’s caught in it.  They are winding down their exchange:

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

This week I will also know the exact dates of our trip to Vienna.  When in need of English delicacies (pickled eel, Marmite, offal pudding in cans, Tetley tea, a jar of water from the Thames, etcetera), let me know.  In case of shopping I will need notice because I do not frequent the supermarkets.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_I don’t need anything :) no shopping necessary.  I HATE SHOPS.  I haven’t been in a UK supermarket in well over two years because I buy everything online with delivery or I’d have starved aeons ago._

(Fortunately for Sherlock the camera on his laptop is shut off; Alex might have reason for concern.  He has nearly jumped out of his chair at the beauty of it:   _Online food shopping?  A solution to the lack of proviant that annoys John.  A way to avoid the horrid stenches, insipid chatter of complete idiots, wasted minutes and ambient roar in the shops.  Could be automated to ensure deliveries of perishable products at optimal intervals.... Elegant....)_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

Hunger sharpens the senses.  You left your Penhaligon’s in your office.  Bring it to you?

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_I have the iris with me.  The lime reminds me of my ex._

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

OK, but do you want me to bring it to you?  Or other effects?

_aganussbaum wrote_

_Do you want things that remind you of your exes?  You probably melt them down?_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

I cannot say because I’ve never had anyone I considered my “ex”.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_Then you are a lucky man._

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_I forgot, you don’t believe in luck.  Sorry, we are left with *Then you are a man*_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

No reason to apologise for that, assuredly.  Logging off for now.  Thank you for your help.  I’ll redo them.  Stay well.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_OK, take care._

***

At just past ten thirty in the evening, John is at his flat, in his bed, propped on two pillows with a book in his hands, when he hears his door lock being forced open.  At the first metallic sounds he feels a rush of heat through his entire body.  He grins.  _Am I the only bloke in London about to get a hard-on from the sound of a break-in right now?_ (He isn’t.) _But this isn’t any ordinary burglar.  Better not be._   In a moment Sherlock opens the door; he is back-lit by the glare of the flickering light in the foyer.  He closes and bolts the door behind himself and approaches John in bed, coat and all, and only bothers to kick off his shoes, in a careless manner that draws John’s attention.  He puts his arms out to Sherlock quickly and pulls him down on top of him -- “Hmm, come here, love,” he says.  “Can’t wait?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock says, and puts his lips on John’s cheek.  It is not entirely a kiss. 

“Okay,” John answers to that, and holds him.  _Something is still wrong?_  “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Have you been smoking?”

“Yes, I have.”

“What have you got all over your hand?”

“From a pen.”

“Okay, let’s get you out of this coat, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Make you some tea, love?”

“Mmm.”

They both stand up from the bed.  Sherlock takes off his coat and jacket and drapes them carefully over a low, spindly chair, one he would certainly never wish to sit on.  His eyes briefly pass over John; he is padding over to the kitchen annex now to put on the kettle; as it starts popping and clicking loudly under the growing warmth of the water, John looks over at Sherlock, who is sitting down on the edge of the bed, in a pale blue shirt that is nearly coming unbuttoned at the clavicles.  Enticing, except that Sherlock is gazing absently at John’s three chairs, absorbed in his own thoughts.  John turns away and makes tea for them in two mugs.  He puts three spoons of sugar in Sherlock’s, sighs, and brings them over to his small table, which stands in a triangulation with his bed and wardrobe.  John approaches Sherlock and holds out his hand.  Sherlock takes it but seems to want John to sit with him.  He sits.  “What do you need?” John asks quietly. 

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock answers.  _What key could be turned in you that would repulse you, make you leave me?  What would.  What could he say to you?  Surely we would be able to stop it?_  

“You look tired, maybe I could --?”  John is looking at him carefully.  “Kiss you, to start.”

“The smoking.”  _I did it anyhow, the first one in the living room.  Dizzy.  More arguments against --_

“But you’re.  Can’t stay away.”

Sherlock looks at him closely. _Beautiful, beautiful John_.  “So don’t,” he says.  A moment later he understands that he doesn’t always have to hold things like that back; John’s entire face has lit up at it. 

They sit very close in bed together and drink their tea.  They kiss.  John spills some of his tea but doesn’t particularly care.  He finally sets his mug down on the floor.  “Thinking of you all day, love.  And the sandwiches were great, by the way, thanks.”

“Probably too much mayonnaise,” Sherlock answers, and swallows a long sip of tea. “I made them in a hurry.”

John takes his mug away and covers each of Sherlock’s lips gently in kisses, because he doesn’t know what to say to that, at all.

At eleven fifteen, the hospital calls him in.

“Stay and sleep,” he says, stopping to kiss Sherlock one last time before he runs out.  It is warm and deep (a promise).  

He had mostly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and now that he is alone, Sherlock finishes taking off his clothes and slides under John’s covers.  He buries his face down in the delicious sheets and his eyes flick up to the mass of glittering cut glass on the chandelier, bearing down on his senses; it is too offensive to the eyes for words (or clear thoughts).  Soon he leans over and opens John’s bedside table drawer.  He’s been wanting to rifle through it for some time. 

The first thing he sees is a page from a spiral-bound sketchbook, with the three pencil studies of his mouth and chin that Alex had made ( _so John does find them sensual_ ).  Beneath that, he finds an assortment of those species most common to drawers -- paper clips, rubber bands, thumb tacks, medical pins from conferences and a badge, a charger from a previous mobile phone, a thermometer in a broken etui and tissues; beneath that, there is a warranty booklet ( _for the kettle, which is about to burn out_ ); a small flashlight, books of matches from London pubs -- one from Dublin; fourteen 50p coins in a baggie ( _for the meters_ ); a small bottle of flavourless water-based lubricant and three condoms _(bought in Burnham Market -- and which I found by chance less than an hour before our departure -- no such thing as luck)_ ; keys to unknown locks past, a single, pretty oval cuff button ( _lapis, medical school, sentiment_ ), receipts ( _uninteresting_ ), an address book ( _mostly outdated_ ).  And John’s gun. 

He takes it in his hand and leans back against the pillow; he clicks off the safety and aims it at one of the centremost cut glass balls on the chandelier, which dangles slightly lower than the others -- tauntingly -- an offence against several laws that Sherlock holds dear.  He imagines the sound of it blowing apart and showering onto the floor.  The temptation shivering its way into his fingers is nearly more than he can bear.   _But I am a man of control.  Today._ He smiles, lowers the gun, resets the safety catch and arranges the bottom layer of John’s effects in the drawer as they’d been found, reluctantly replacing the gun beneath Alex’s sketches.  He closes the drawer.  The chandelier has won.  And he will wait for John.  Sherlock switches off the small bedside lamp, curls up with his nose pressed into the edge of John’s pillowcase, and drifts into a shallow sleep. 

He dreams of a burning staircase that bleeds under his footsteps. 

He wakes at nearly three in the morning; he sees the black outline of John, standing over him, very quietly unbuttoning his shirt and trousers as he stares down in the dark.  When he pulls them off and climbs carefully into bed, his hand is closed over his cock.  Sherlock wraps his arms around him. “Not sleeping,” he whispers, and pushes his tongue into John’s eager mouth. 


	44. Drawing, redrawing

The _Glen Burns_ is a gentlemen’s club in Knightsbridge with no visible signage.  Sherlock knows it well from within and without.  Today he has brought John with him to a meeting which (for three highly personal reasons) he has postponed for days.  In the meantime, Mycroft has not been in touch again.  The silence stridently underscores his authority on the Vienna question, which Sherlock finds intolerable.  What remains unclear, however, is why Mycroft should resort to a warning of that kind at all. 

As _involved_ as Sherlock has become (he dislikes the word _involvement_ right now), he doesn’t often think objectively about his relationship with John (hence his discomfort with suddenly hearing _boyfriend, lover, date_ and the like, which reduce the unexplainable but very beautiful -- _state_ \-- they have in order to fit someone’s explanation, introduction, label or caption).  Now that he has been forced to imagine losing what he has with John to an intrigue ( _and Mycroft claims I have a poor sense of proportion_ ), it has left him physically ill.  _Variables_ \--       

The club, in a freestanding, whitewashed Victorian villa with black trimming and brass rimmed windowpanes, has a classic and inviting but dizzying black and white tiled entryway; John stands with his hands clasped behind his back, beneath a large crystal chandelier, and watches as Lawrence, their host, stands up and approaches them from a richly-furnished great room just ahead.  He is tall and thin, perhaps close to fifty, in a loose, double-breasted, pin-striped suit in a dark, indecisive gray-blue colour.  He is friendly, though his movements and voice seem slightly theatrical to John.  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he says.  “Welcome.  Ah, I see.  You have not come alone?”

Sherlock is in a -- _state_ , John notes.  Their introductions are stiffened by his cold behaviour.

“This is not our last appointment,” Sherlock has replied.  _Lawrence Collingwood.  My brother’s flock of cronies are indeed genetically engineered, John.  Several centuries of inbreeding.  They appear to share clothing.  Enough to put one off watch chains for life, pity.  Then again, why would a man need one more dangling -- ah, yes, I believe I see why.  Mercifully, Edward is in Perth.  Married, with two daughters.  Mention his name, Larry, and I’ll take you down at the sight of your teeth parting around the first vowel.  With pleasure._

The gentleman is briefly (pretending to be) confused.  He smiles charmingly.  “Excuse me?”

Sherlock glares at him.  _“In the day,”_ he says, with apparent displeasure. 

John sees it and looks away quickly to keep from smiling; he is chuffed.  Every time he looks at Sherlock _(so angry that someone can see he’s hot)_ his lips still insist on curling upward, so he finally stares down at his feet. 

“Ah.  Naturally,” Lawrence says, recovering.  “You have other affairs.  Please sit down.  Dr. Watson, you will forgive --” 

“There is nothing you can say to me that can’t be said in front of him,” Sherlock breaks in, taking a chair. “He will accompany me in Vienna, as well.”

John watches insolence creeping into every line of Sherlock’s body.  He is slowly slouching down; his elbows are propped on the armrests and his hands are loosely folded. 

 _Over-sensitive_ , John thinks, before recalling that this behaviour had been Sherlock’s default approach to nearly everyone, until relatively recently.  Naturally, John is oblivious to the fact that the volume of love poems about Sherlock -- in that mysterious parcel from Cambridge -- burned on the fire grate at Baker Street -- had been penned by their smiling host’s younger brother.

Lawrence raises his eyebrows.  “This is a matter of some delicacy, which is why I still insist we speak alone.  You will excuse us, Doctor Watson.”  He looks at John.  “I am merely an intermediary and I was not authorised to share the details of this contract with anyone else,” he explains.

“No, I understand.” John clears his throat and steps away from the chair he’d planned to seat himself in. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as Lawrence turns to John; he waves a bony hand in the direction of the upstairs galleries.  “There is a _fine_ display of antique maps and historical globes in our uppermost library,” he says. “Up three flights of stairs, round the topmost gallery and to the right.  You won’t be disappointed, I assure you.  We frequently lend parts of the collection to libraries and museums around the country and in Europe.  The utopian globes and treasure maps are particularly striking and many of them are entirely satirical or fantastic.  A renowned art historian recently appraised part of the collection and wrote of it that --”

Sherlock looks down at the tabletop in front of him.  In spite of his overall irritation he suddenly seems about to break into a smug smile.

“Ah, hmm,” John interrupts Lawrence.  “By any chance would that be...Dr. Jens Lindberg?”

“Why, _yes_ , Doctor, _yes!_   Are you familiar with Dr. Lindberg’s recent article?”

“Not entirely.”  John flashes a forced smile. 

Sherlock snorts.  “Pigment provenance and colour permanence in 18th and 19th century papers, under the influence of temperature, moisture, and acids, among other things,” he says.

“So you know it, Mr. Holmes!” Lawrence exclaims.  “Smashing!  Yes, our collection deserves its reputation indeed.”

 _Smashing?_  “I’m sure it does,” John says, grasping the point of all of Sherlock’s eccentric chemical research in recent months.  He shakes his head.

“Well.  Yes.  As you go, you will also see a selection of paintings, lithographs, engravings, pen and ink drawings and fine intaglio prints on the walls.  It’s but a small part of a rotating display of a collection which belonged to the honourable founder of our club, Sir Eustace Moreland Hutcheonthorpe,” Lawrence says proudly, “bibliophile and philanthropist.”

 _What -- donated spare letters of his name to the needy, did he?_   thinks John.  “Thank you, I’ll go have a look at it.”

“I’m sure you will be pleased with it.  You’ll forgive me for asking you to view it in place of --“

“Of course,” John says.  He glances over at Sherlock again.

Sherlock looks to be settling into his next stage of displeasure -- he has become restless; he is drumming his fingers on the tabletop.  Lawrence receives a telephone call, excuses himself and leaves the room for a moment.

_Taptaptap -- tap -- tap -- tap -- taptaptap_

_S.O.S.?_   John shrugs and smiles sympathetically at Sherlock, whose eyes seem a bit wild; he doesn’t smile back; he merely nods. 

“All right,” John says, and turns away.  He takes out his phone and starts scrolling through an email forwarded from his orthopaedist friend, Will.  _Need to put Linda forward_ , he thinks.  _This week, for sure.  Introduce them..._

He slowly ascends the stairs; his free hand trails and taps restlessly along the smooth length of a massive oak banister. He notes that along all of the staircases there are indeed scores of small works of art in frames, most of which appear to be from the Victorian and Edwardian periods.  He glances up at a few of the pictures as he goes -- equestrian and hunting scenes, garden parties, an occasional bawdy or political print, which look like satirical book or journal illustrations (a topless woman in a hot air balloon, her lover trying to reel her in by the ropes; a gentleman with an enormous erection, seated on an emu, wearing only a top hat and a cravat; a girl dressed in a uniform and a Brodie helmet, coquettishly showing her arse to two officers; hunting dogs carrying ducks dressed as German soldiers in their teeth; a woman fondling one of her breasts and kissing a phonograph; young girls in black masks riding the backs of saddled swans; Bismarck getting spanked over a chubby scullery maid’s knees).  He finds there is nobody else in the library.  He walks among a few dozen glass and wooden cases which line the walls beneath shelves of lovely old volumes of all colours, textures and sizes.  He takes in some of the attractive engravings and hand-tinted maps in them.  Many of them are of continental Europe and Asia, though others are indeed depictions of fantasy lands -- _decor for the rooms of privileged children_ , he muses.

A text arrives.

_We need to rethink the borders of my imagination. SH_

John smiles.  _Yes, with you, always._   His entire chest goes warm.  He will never forget their words at the waterside, all amazing to him.  He wants to go back downstairs. _He was tense, needed a_ \--  John looks about him at all the maps and tries to compose himself, and write an answer.  Before he can start to type anything in, he receives a second text.

_Descending second staircase, eleventh stair.  Consider.  SH_

He looks around at the map collection a bit more and spins several more globes around in his fingers before his curiosity takes over and he decides to go have a look at that stair.  And _consider_ , to pass the time.

 _All right, this may be about as close to sexting as Sherlock gets -- three, four... a Victorian painting, sure, that works,_ John thinks, smirking and sniggering to himself as he goes.  _Not the chap with the emu, I beg you.  Eight...nine...ten...._

Then John stops counting, and also stops smirking. 

He starts several texts:

_OK considering when and where._

_OK but not on the stairs._

_OK but which of us is the dark-haired officer?_

_OK but_

_OK_

\--  and erases them all.  He snaps a photograph of the ink drawing in question (left hand perfectly steady) and turns away.

As Lawrence reads fragments of a sample agreement aloud, Sherlock hears the creaking of wooden stairs under John’s footsteps.  _Eleven slower steps_.  _Has not stopped on the landing.  Not replying -- John doesn’t text on stairs --_

John returns to the library and settles into a plush, throne-like chair, next to a large globe with hand-painted oceans full of tiny, fanciful fish and sea monsters.  _Sea snakes._ He turns it about a bit and admires the detail of it.  Under different circumstances this whole collection would interest him very much.  Now, however, it is merely keeping him at bay; he has the irrational urge to create a diversion and leave.  _It has worked for us plenty of times in the past_ , he thinks. 

 _Maybe it was all practice for this stage of things?  Divert everyone else and go snog that impertinent creature downstairs?_   John snickers to himself.  _Fully paneled in wood -- old furniture and thousands of books.  It would go up like a fucking tinderbox_ \-- 

He doesn’t carry a lighter, however.  And his answer should not be shouted under duress, inside a burning historic building, as exciting as it would be.  Another text comes in about twenty minutes, which have been remarkable to John only because of their unusual length: 

 _Finished.  SH_  

John comes downstairs and enters the sitting room as the two gentlemen are standing up from the table.  Lawrence gathers his papers.  Sherlock buttons and straightens his jacket.  Lawrence makes to shake his hand; Sherlock instead pushes in his chair and turns to John. 

“Have you seen everything you wanted to?” he asks in a disinterested fashion.

“I believe I have,” John says, as the drawing over the eleventh stair comes to life, in his mind’s eye.  “But to take it all in, I would need a lot more time.”  He cringes internally after that part and glances back at Sherlock, who is completely inexpressive.  “The variety in the collection upstairs is impressive, thank you,” John adds, smiling briefly at Lawrence.  The man looks uncomfortable after Sherlock’s snub and has lowered his hand in the meantime and clasped it awkwardly against his hip; John feels sorry for him. 

Lawrence finally nods.  “You’re most welcome, Doctor,” he answers.

John and Sherlock leave quickly.  As they walk out of the building, John glances over at his friend, who has apparently just received a text.  “You did all the chemical research for that paper of Jens Lindberg’s he was talking about, didn’t you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies flatly, his eyes darting around them.  “We’ll need a cab....”

“Why didn’t you just publish it yourself?  It’s good work, I’ve no doubt,” John remarks.

“The most interesting findings are already on my blog,” Sherlock says, and begins pounding at his phone impatiently with his thumbs as he strides just ahead of John toward the street.  “No academic body in England worth its salt will publish my work, particularly in the area of chemistry.”

“Because you’re a detective and not an academic?  The old boys look after their own first, though, you see the same bias in medical journals all the time.  Stupid, isn’t it?  I’ve experienced it with my own papers.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, and for a brief instant his eyes glitter with what looks like satisfaction.  “It’s because of Cambridge.  Did Mycroft finally share that anecdote with you?”

“I haven’t seen Mycroft in ages, actually,” John says.

“You haven’t?  Well, assuredly you’ll see him very soon,” Sherlock says _(ominously? ironically?)._   He shoves his phone into his pocket and looks actively for a cab.  He spies one and puts his arm up quickly; it pulls up to the pavement.  Sherlock exchanges a word with the driver and and they climb in.  “Going to the site of an accident, a fall, Herne Hill.  I’ll want your opinion,” Sherlock says to John.

“Sure.”

“Good.  We’ve a bit of a ride ahead.”

“Yeah,” John says, his mind twisting every other word for him by now.  “Anything unusual?”

“No way to tell now.” 

“True.”

 _That meeting upset him somehow,_ thinks John.  _Ask him.  Maybe later.  Oh, Jesus, that --_

The meeting has, indeed, upset Sherlock.  After speaking to Lawrence he is starting to see a potential catch to his job in Vienna, which does not please him at all; his brother’s threats are taking on a new significance.  Truth be told, however, he is also disappointed that his texts have gone unanswered and that John is behaving nonchalantly. _I’ve disgusted him, perhaps.  Then again, the shutter sound on his phone is earsplitting.  I’d know it anywhere._

***

Sherlock has made a sound choice, if he intends that John should _consider_.  As they go, John can presently think of little else outside of the picture which hangs above the eleventh stair on the second staircase, back at Sir Hutcheonthorpe’s club.  He would like to steal a look at it on his phone but doesn’t dare now.  His mind wanders.   _Tastefully done, looked Edwardian.  Two officers from the Great War, judging by the uniforms and the other artwork around.  The battlefield.  Gruesome circumstances for love.  The two of them fight side by side.  Try to keep their men alive.  Win a few yards of ground a day.  Death everywhere, boys maimed, dead faces; the stench of gore, shit, smoke, vomit and piss all round.  A shell might hit their camp in the night as they sleep.  Or in the daylight hours as they watch.  Either of them could be picked off, so easily, and become another one of a hundred other senseless deaths from that day, right in their own trenches.  Others haven’t got to see this night and should have got to.  They feel sorry and grateful to be alive at the same time and it makes them sick and mixed up inside.  They are in their quarters, in the dark of night, want to forget, but there’s more -- they’re afraid of losing each other and need to be close.  They want to share something because they don’t know if they’ll wake up again and get to stay in love another day._   _Their faces are hidden, one is blonde (puttees unrolled, thrown aside, no boots.  Hot.  Trousers pushed off, doesn’t care now, he’s wanting it); he’s on his back in a pile of coats, with a pack under his arse; the other is dark haired, in riding boots; his trousers are unbuttoned and parted open, pushed down a bit, his cock is deep inside the other; maybe started as a favour, couldn’t resist moving in for a quick fuck -- or no, not quick.  No, he wouldn’t do it that way.  There’s nothing forced, no humiliation, not quick at all.  This is missionary, face to face.  Between close friends.  Their arms are around each other and their faces are buried in each others’ necks, hidden -- but not to each other:  they talk, they kiss, they look, there’s no shame in it, they love each other and it will be very personal that night, and it won’t matter that one could die and leave the other behind the next day.  That life is fucking fragile.  That everything can just evaporate and you can’t stop it.  That death can cut them apart and leave one of them with empty arms, forever.  Left remembering until the very end of his life.  Alone, with all of those feelings and memories.  And they can’t do anything to stop it.  Unfair.  I would do the same.  Take you slow, look at you, and make you mine.  Oh, God.  Oh my God._

John is hard in his jeans but at the same time his throat is hurting.  He’s very uncomfortable.  The cab is too warm for him, and he wants to get out and move around -- have a walk and think, if nothing else.  There is no chance of that.  “Who would be the dark-haired officer?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock doesn’t look up at him.  He is writing something; his eyes and thumbs are still flicking quickly over the screen of his phone.  “I’ll leave you to your --“

“No.  You’re dark-haired, but I’ve got the rank.  Which of us.”

Sherlock has just registered the heat in John’s voice. “Both of us,” he replies, pressing _send_ with more than his usual concentration.

“But I mean the first time.”

 _The first [of x number of times]._   “You have considered it, then.” Sherlock turns and stares absorbedly at John, who feels the entire strength of that look in his groin.

“Yeah.  I have,” John says.  “Many times.”

Sherlock shudders.  He is no better state than John. “You,” he says. 

“Yeah, I’ve considered it.  Of course I have,” John answers emphatically.

“No.  _You_.  First.”

“Oh.  Yeah.”  John nods.  After a short while he notices that he is breathing with his mouth open and clamps it shut.  _My privilege.  To -- Fuck._

_The crime scene.  Going to fucking lose it._

“Here we are,” Sherlock mumbles, as the cab approaches a house with a police car parked out in front.

They leap out and pay the cabbie.  _Coats are our friends_ , John decides, buttoning up for the walk.  _Coats work._

“Took you two long enough,” Lestrade says, in welcome. “Getting ready to take him already.  Doesn’t matter which of you goes first, just hurry up.  In through the back.” 

John shakes his head.  _What the fuck is wrong with me.  The universe wants to drive me insane_ , he decides, and walks after Lestrade and Sherlock, through a wooden gate, into a back garden.

***

John crouches over the corpse of an overweight middle-aged man in house clothes and slippers, who has apparently tumbled from a ladder. 

Sherlock stands behind him, his eyes trained on the grass; he nearly flinches when he and John receive texts, at exactly the same time. 


	45. Loss and gain

John hasn’t noticed the fact of the simultaneous texts.  He wouldn’t -- Sherlock’s phone has vibrated discreetly in his pocket.  John has just pointed out that the time of the man’s death appears to be much earlier than the one the family has given.  He puts on a rubber glove and carefully examines the inside of the man’s mouth, pulling his lips aside gently as if he would protest to a more impersonal touch. 

Sherlock turns his eyes the other way, to Lestrade, who is explaining in a low voice that he wants to determine if anyone had destabilised the ladder on purpose, due to the odd behaviour of the dead man’s family members, who are standing around a bit too guiltily, though it appears that the body in the garden had not fallen from any height at all.  John  remarks that the man could have had a seizure or cardic event while standing just above the ground, perhaps on one of the two lowermost rungs, if any.  Sherlock has already seen enough and steps aside.  He takes out his phone and reads:

_Dear All, Last night Jim passed away after unexpected complications and a brief battle with sepsis.  He is now in a better place where there’s no pain and suffering.  I will be in touch personally about our memorial arrangements soon.  Thank you for your support and prayers. <3 Linda Snow and Mike Barrows_

“Sherlock,” Lestrade is saying, “What do you see?”

“There aren’t any traces of anyone else’s footprints around the ladder, aside from yours.  Heart attack.  He put one foot on the lowest rung, fell back to the ground, and wasn’t found for nearly five hours.  Even the family dog relieved himself nearby in the meantime.  Look at him.  Uncared for.  Stained collar, holes in his socks, a split seam in the leg of his pajama, a patch of hair missed during a homespun haircut that nobody bothered to tell him about.  The family doesn’t want to admit that they didn’t miss him for so long, though they were all in at the time, watching telly, judging by their thumbs and backsides.  It is perfectly straightforward.”

“I’d say heart attack, too,” John says.  “No flush on the chest but there’s cyanosis around the nose, here...”

“Are you serious?” Lestrade asks, turning to Sherlock.

“Oh yes.  Excuse us,” Sherlock says.  His eyes follow John’s hand as he reaches toward his pocket. “John, a word.”

John has got up from the grass and pulled his phone out.  Sherlock leads him by the arm to the side of the house and John stuffs the phone back into his pocket.  “We got it,” he is saying. “You’re so -- I can’t.”  His eyes are flashing.  He wants to share a kiss while they’re alone; Sherlock holds him off firmly.

John’s face begins to cloud.  “What’s going on?” he says.  “Why are you acting so --“

“John.” 

“What!” John makes an impatient movement, as if to push Sherlock’s hand away.

“Jim has died,” Sherlock says.  “Quite unexpectedly.  I’m terribly sorry.”

John stares at him.  “Died,” he repeats. 

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“A mistake.  It’s a mistake?”

“It’s not.”

“When could that.”

“In the night.”

“But I didn’t go.  Hmmm.”

“John --”

“Hmmm.  Didn’t.  Hmm.”

“We’ll go home.”  

“Hmmm.”

John has frozen.

“I’ll tell Lestrade we’re leaving.”

“Hmmm.  Sherl -- hmmm.“

_Taking John home.  Text me.  SH_

Sherlock wraps his arms around John and buries his lips and nose in his hair.  “We’ll walk to the road to get a cab.” John still can’t move.  Sherlock kisses the crown of John’s head and then his cheeks, and pets him gently.  “It’s all right, John.” 

John is trying to breathe rhythmically; it breaks apart; he tries again.  Lestrade has just appeared from around the corner of the house; he wants to ask one thing more.  His phone is still in his hand.  Sherlock stops kissing John’s head long enough to gesture to Lestrade to stand off.  Lestrade nods and backs away.  “We’re going, _now_ ,” Sherlock says sharply to John. 

John puts his head up at that.  He is in complete shock; he won’t really remember the ride home.  Sherlock takes his phone from him and texts two colleagues that he needs them to take all his hours for a day or two, to be confirmed.

John is mostly silent at Baker Street that afternoon, fixing an absent gaze at the floor or following Sherlock with dilated eyes.  Above all he feels remorseful that he hadn’t made time to visit Jim, thinking he had a bit longer, and while he knows well that life is always so fragile, it doesn’t make the ache in his gut bearable. 

Sherlock gives him a warm dressing gown and sits with him on the sofa, very close, and reads a monograph about the process of priming and grafting queen cell cups for queenless bee colonies.  John stares across at a football match on the telly (a championship playoff, which apparently makes it somehow more relevant and watchable); he hums and clears his throat from time to time; Sherlock takes his hand.  About half-way through the game, Sherlock says, “If I make something, will you eat it?  Your stomach is appalling me.”

John nearly cries into his sandwiches (“Admittedly, hopeless in terms of their aesthetic properties,” Sherlock claims, handing them to John on a small plate, but they are delicious, as is the tea).  This time, John crawls into Sherlock’s lap to be petted.

In the evening, Sherlock gives John a largish dose of valerian to help him sleep -- but tells him first.  John is drowsy and affectionate; he slowly dozes off with his arm around Sherlock’s neck.

***

The figure Jim has cut in John’s life (and briefly, in his own) remains puzzling to Sherlock:  a lost piece, found.  Gone again.  Dizziness, nausea and uncertainty accompany him in turns.  He slips away from John and goes out for a walk to have a few smokes in the night.  It is part of the self-defacement of an emotionally inexperienced man, whose dearest person in the world is in pain:  he doesn’t know what to do to make him feel better; sadly, he doesn’t realise how thankful John is to have him there. 

When he comes back home it is nearly three in the morning and he reeks of smoke.  He washes up and goes to wrap himself against John’s warm back and hold his chest (he wants to feel his heart).  John turns over for a moment and mumbles (grazing Sherlock’s cheek with his lips, in his sleep), “Love you.  Don’t smoke.”

Sherlock studies him closely in the city light his window affords at this hour; just now he looks gray and unpained.   _As if he were dead._   Sherlock snaps his eyes closed as unexpected tears glaze over what he has just seen and for now will disallow another look.  He reminds himself to be kind.  And love John well.  _(He is strong, and healthy.  Loves me.)_   He has a headache.  He presses his nose against John’s nape and listens to the quiet, intermittent rasp in his throat as he breathes.  Sherlock decides it is among the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard.

***

“Paula took several steps on her own yesterday.  Expected to make a full recovery.  Her brother, and Mandy the dog apparently, send their greetings,” Sherlock says to John, over breakfast, as he sifts through emails on his laptop.

“Nice.”

“Reuters picked that one up, it’s all over the continent.” Sherlock sighs affectedly.  "The things people read..."

“Good.  Nice.”

“Mmm.  Regarding Jim’s memorial.  Do you want me to attend?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Of course, yeah.  He died at peace, because.” John is going stiff, except for his saucer-like eyes.  “You took care of it.  What he bolloxed up,” he mumbles, because now he is feeling worse again.  And he doesn’t know how to ask Sherlock about his finances.  He wonders about it quite often.

“Okay.” Sherlock glances away.

John sips at his tea.  He is still staring.  “Have you any idea?” he asks.

Sherlock smiles briefly at his hands.

“You’ve no idea.  No idea.” John releases a long sigh that is partially a hum in his throat. “I’ll say a few words there.  Write something today, for him.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock has received a text and he furrows his eyebrows at it.  “Lestrade.  Coming?”  (John shakes his head.)  “Sure?”  

Sherlock had expected him to agree.

He gets up from the table and leans down to kiss John’s forehead.  “Okay.  There will be a pre-paid delivery between twelve and one, sign for it.”

“What is it?” John asks.

 _Alex, you are a genius, this will be gorgeous._ “Proviant, soldier.” Sherlock regrets that he won’t be home to see John’s face when he opens up all the boxes and sees the results of his first foray into the realm of online food shopping.  

“Right.  In a hurry?”

“Yes.”

“Come here.  Just thirty seconds.  But no counting.”

John gets his point across.  Sherlock (after several breathtaking minutes) very reluctantly leaves him behind, but not before stating his intentions to come home as quickly as he reasonably can.  He has several people to talk to today, however.

***

Sherlock is nearly at eye level with the crushed skull of a young university student whose body had been found beaten and mangled in an alleyway.

Lestrade clears his throat slightly.  “So you and John --“

“Yes.”  _Obviously._

“Long?” Lestrade asks.

“Not counting.”  _Liar._

“Good.  Not that you aren’t counting.  Nah, just --”  Lestrade shoves his hands in his coat pockets.

“Say what you mean,” Sherlock says.

“He was mar --“

“-- And?”

“No, well, I guess I thought he --“

“He is.”  _Never asked, in fact._

“But that would mean --“

“Yes.”

“So you’re --“

“What.”  Sherlock narrows his eyes at Lestrade.

“Uhm -- happy, together?”

“Yes.”  _True._

“Huh.  Glad to hear it,” Lestrade says, flashing a tense smile.

“Thank you.”

“So what else have we got?”

“Skull crushed after death,” Sherlock says.

“For good measure?”

“So it would appear, kicked with metal toed shoes, judging by the shape of the impact.  And look at the prints near the body.  Size 11.”

“Motive?” Lestrade asks.

“Hate crime, obviously.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Look more closely.  Got to run.” 

“What am I looking for?” Lestrade asks.

“He may have been _happy_ ,” Sherlock says with irritation, as he straightens himself to full height and shoves his magnifier into his pocket.

Lestrade nods and swallows his last question. 

***

Sherlock stops by a newsstand for two publications that seem to revolve around sports news but at least include statistics, and would seem more worth the effort to read.  When he comes home, he sees flattened cartons stacked near the door and finds John in the kitchen, bent over a pan of what would appear to be goulash, or sauce, judging by the smell.

“Oh hey, love,” John says.  He is pleased to be busy, and has finally smiled.  “Come here.”

“Mmmm?” Sherlock puts down the magazines and walks over to him.

“I thought maybe you’d ordered pizza.  This.  Seriously.” John gestures at the kitchen, at large.

“Well.”

“I don’t know what to say.  Well done.” He wraps his arms around Sherlock.  “Want a late lunch in a while?”

“Okay.”

“The best part is going to be watching you eat it all, you know.  Beautiful.”

“That would take --“

“I don’t mind.”  John looks at him ( _eyes heated; he's been fantasising_ ) though he also looks troubled.  It speaks volumes of the confusion in his head.  “I love you so much.  All of _this_.  How did I ever.”  He seems to interrupt himself.  He has taken Sherlock by the neck.  “Hmmm,” he says softly. “Can we?  A little.  I just need you.”

Sherlock leans over and switches off the cooker.  “We can.”  He takes one of John’s fingers and licks the tip of it ( _spices, tomatoes_ ) before closing his hand around all of them.  

“Oh yeah.” 

“Come, John.”  (Sherlock relishes the feeling of pulling John by the hand toward his room.) 


	46. The bravery of the soldier

“I’ve hardly touched you,” John says, rubbing his lips and tongue over Sherlock’s chin while closing his warm hands over his friend’s hips.  “Not enough today.  Come here.  I want to feel you on me.” 

Sherlock kisses John  and as they reach his bed he pushes John down under the force of his kisses until he has him on his back.  He climbs nearly on top of him. “What do you want to feel?” he asks, palming John and watching him writhe as his eyes widen and he bites at his lips.   

Before he hears an answer, Sherlock’s nimble fingers have already made short work of the row of buttons down the front of John’s jeans. “Take these off.”  He helps John yank them down and tosses them away.  He smiles.  “Cooking in this state is madness.” 

“As soon as I saw.  You.  Make me _crazy_ \-- you’re --”

“I am what?”  Sherlock says between kisses and nips on John's lower lip.  He is stroking John now and cupping his palm under John’s sac.  He licks and kisses John’s chin and neck forcefully.  His fingertips are stealing back toward John’s arse.  John’s breath hitches when Sherlock daringly circles him, as if accidentally, or as though his fingers were merely too long for their own good.  _Mmm.  Perhaps they are.  For now._    

“Oh yeah.  Hmm.  Just --“  John pulls Sherlock down by the collar to his mouth ( _teeth, painful_ ).  “I need you,” he growls.  He is madly gripping at Sherlock’s shoulder while his mouth begins wandering; he presses his lips over the veins in his friend’s pale neck, just above him.   “Need it so bad.”

“Where.”  Sherlock slows his kisses and brushes his lips over John’s almost innocently, pulling his thumb over John’s shaft.

“Hmmm, where wha --?” John moans.

 _Nnngh -- vulgar.  Very vulgar.  He’ll like it._ Sherlock drops his voice at least an octave.  “Where do you want to come.”

“Wha -- I --“ John seems momentarily to have lost his ability to respond freely.  They look at each other, very close; Sherlock drops his eyes and lets his gaze trail over John’s face and neck, as if deciding where to taste him next.  John’s ears and neck have flushed -- “In -- your mouth...”  Sherlock’s fingers (quite unintentionally -- naturally) brush and circle John again. “Oh, _God --  your -- fingers --”_

“Relax,” Sherlock tells him, and leans over to his bedside table and peers into his drawer,  John is holding his breath, Sherlock notices ( _Mmmm, our photos in the cab -- show him my favourite another time, oh, and this --  John, you will love this_ ).  He slicks up his fingers.  “We’re not pioneers, soldier,” he says calmly (not an act, even if it feels new enough to be one; he is unsure himself of the difference, at times).  “Just a little?”

John stares as he processes what Sherlock is asking.  “Yeah.”   _Fuck, he’s going to do it for me, oh God._  He’s been thinking of this; the image of the officers, hanging in the stairwell at the _Glen Burns_ club, has remained vivid in his mind.  It has left him curious, and nervous.  Now he is smiling; the entire process of his thoughts is captured in his features.  His eyebrows are trembling upward; his mouth is open and expectant -- the corners are upturned, his tongue looks about to form another word.  Everything in that expression intensifies as Sherlock slides down and takes John’s cock in his mouth.  John groans at the warmth and pressure.  He tries not to move into it too roughly.  He can hardly control himself at the thought of what is about to happen.  “So good,” he sighs, petting Sherlock’s head, already well into a build that is spreading through his entire lower body.  His thighs are tingling.  _Your tongue, so.  Good.  So -- oh, Chrrriiist._ “Ahhh,” he groans.  “Oh, my _f-- fuck_ \-- oh.  Yes.  That’s.  Ah.  Ahhh, yeah...thaaat iiiis... _it_.  _Thaaat!_ ”   Sherlock smiles around John and flicks his tongue down his throbbing length, while teasing him inside, deep.  One finger.  Gently.  Hardly moving -- merely the smallest gesture, meant to set off the long, wet sucks on the outside, each of which ache and quaver through John -- until he makes another sudden sound in his throat -- the one that Sherlock wants to hear:  a burst of strangled swearing that flattens into a guttural howl, deep in his tightly closed mouth _(he wants so much not to swear, for me, beautiful John)_ as he loses control of his body -- with a shout, and thrusts at Sherlock, who takes him down as well as he can without choking, and then very slowly lets him go; John nearly coughs from the intensity of it.  “Ah, yeah,” John mumbles hoarsely.  His entire lower body seems drained and contracted as he turns over onto his side.   He grins senselessly and puts out his arm; Sherlock hugs him tightly.  John knows he will not finish any significant thoughts for now.  Instead he draws Sherlock’s face closer for a deep kiss (salty), his own tongue crazed by wanting to groan, thank, speak, kiss and praise all at once.  Nothing comes easily.  He mumbles a bit later, “You’ve no idea.  How I.  You, oh, God.  You _need_ to feel that.  Love you.  That was.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I didn’t know.  And I’m a bloody doctor.”

“A very good one.”  Sherlock kisses John’s forehead.  “Didn’t hurt you?”

“No, Jesus.  No.  I can give you that, love, you need to feel that.”

“Another time, John.”

“Mind.  Blowing.” 

John’s eyes are wide and dark, but even so, he is far calmer.  Sherlock curls up with his head against John’s side and John pets him.

“Oi,” John says after a while.  “You’re still fully dressed.”

“Yes, I am.”

“We can change that.”

“No, later.”

“Hmmm.  Lost my head.”

”It was brilliant.”

“Yeah.  Lunch, Sherlock.  I want your help.”

“Nnngh.”

“Come on, I’m starving.  You almost killed me, need to eat.”

“Mmm.”

“Pretend you don’t know what you’re doing?”  John clears his throat.  “Transferable skills.  First-rate chemistry, dissection, invention and the best sense of smell on the sodding planet.  Come on.”

“Boring.  I hate the smells.”

“The _smells_ are the whole point.  Making it smell _good_ , keeping it edible.  Come on, we’re doing this.”

 _“Nnngh.”_ Sherlock groans against John’s chest.

“We’re doing this.  Get up.”

Later, John will have the urge to snap a photograph at the sight of a disheveled Sherlock peeling potatoes, with a short knife, next to his racks of retorts, at the kitchen table.  

But he’ll keep that image for himself, in his head.

***

“Michael isn’t your --” Sherlock whispers.

“No, he isn’t.”

“Of course he isn’t, O bloodtype.  Can’t be.”

“Done your research, have you,” John hisses back.

“And the prominence in the antihelix of his ear --”

“Sherlock.”

“But you will step in.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I will, sometimes.  I’ve thought about that.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock sighs.  “And I’ll have to speak.”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.”

They soon stop whispering; Linda has walked back into the room and Sergeant James Kerwin Barrow’s memorial service is about to commence.  John and Sherlock seat themselves near Linda and Mike.  Sherlock has spied Jim’s elderly Mum, a brother, and a female cousin.  He cannot bear the scene, nor the soft, mournful piano music that is being played through an outdated sound system, and would most gladly shred the cushion of his chair.  He has his hands folded primly on his knee, however.  His molars ache from the saccharine of those tunes, he tells himself; then again, he has been intermittently grinding his teeth for at least twenty minutes.  Linda leans toward them and whispers that she really does want them both to say a word or two in turn for Jim.  She looks significantly at Sherlock, and John turns his eyes away.

A number of family members stand and give their remarks; soon it appears to be John’s turn.  He is taut and gray, and seems unable to clear his throat without moving his head.  He coughs and bites the inside of his cheek as he looks down at a small card in his hand.  Finally, he glances up at the group, raises his chin and begins:

“Jim has left his family and friends with questions about the justice of suffering and of the death of a good man.  And it feels -- pointless, and very unfair.  And the suddenness of his departure has reminded many of us to live life to the fullest while we still can.  But surprisingly few men truly live their lives that way and still leave behind something worthwhile in this world.  Jim has left a son, who he was always very proud of, and Mike, your father loved you very much, to the very end.  And Jim will always have a part in every day I have left on this earth.  I will always be grateful.  The evidence needed to decorate Jim for what he did was insufficient in the eyes of the army.  Which we all know is -- hard to agree to.  But we remember.  He is safe in our hearts and memories.  May he rest in peace.  Thank you.“

John nods at the people in front of him and looks down at Sherlock. _(Say something decent!)_  They exchange places.  Sherlock removes a card from his shirt pocket and holds it behind his back.  He narrows his eyes at the people and then, seemingly, at the back wall.

“For many years, Jim lived under a certain false impression regarding his bravery in Afghanistan,” he says.  Several family members seem to have shifted very suddenly in their chairs.  “He believed he had failed in an act of heroism which few men would ever undertake:  carrying a man to safety under heavy fire.   I do not refer to Captain John Watson, whose life he saved.  There was another, the deceased Private Christopher Andrew Heathstone, who he carried through enemy fire that same day, but who was struck by a bullet that entered his left side and pierced his heart.  Jim never fully forgave himself for what he saw quite incorrectly as a personal failure to save a life.  What he did not know is that Private Heathstone had already died of massive internal injuries well _before_ being struck by that bullet.  He learned the truth from an official report nine days ago.  He had a deep appreciation for human life, and wanted to be of utility.”  His eyes flick over to Jim’s Mum, who is nodding gently.  “To finish.  In his own words.”  Sherlock reads from the card in his hand (a response to one of his own questions to Jim, written down in Linda’s hand; he knows it by heart):  “’Being brave is just doing what you know has to be done after you add in all the anger, fighting and exhaustion.  It’s easier to be brave then, cause you just want to get back to a grand old place, to our England.  You want to get it all over in a hurry and come home to your family.  Some didn’t, even though they were braver and wanted to come home worse than I did and those are the only ones you need to remember and honour, like Chris.  I don’t care about bleeding medals.  I helped a good man and that’s enough for me, I don’t need nothing for it.’”

By the time Sherlock finishes, John has already got up and left the room.  He is outside, determined he will neither vomit, nor cry.

***

The afternoon passes quietly.  John and Sherlock return to Baker Street in silence and finally settle into their armchairs to read, with tea.  

It has been growing colder and they decide to open the flue further and light a small fire.  The ashes of (unrequited) love poetry are still piled on the grate.  John barely resists asking; he would very much like to.

Later, John glances up at Sherlock and watches as a light smile crosses his face, while his eyes dart manically back and forth across the page in his hand.  The fire is atmospheric and John is feeling sentimental.   _He looks so amazing, I can’t._ “What are you reading about, love?” he asks, just to have those eyes fixed on him, for a moment.  Or perhaps longer.

“Mmm?”  Sherlock glances up at him.

 _Beautiful._   “What’s that about?”

“Oh.  How to rear a virgin queen.”

“Wh - at?”  

 _John often treats that word as bisyllabic.  Endearing._  “With notes on their identification.” 

John raises his eyebrows.

“Bees, John.”

“Oh, sure.  And, uhm, how are they identified, then.”

“Well.  They keep their legs splayed in a characteristic fashion and others defer to them, even before they’ve mated.”

 _Bloody flirt._   “Do they.”

“Apparently so.”

_"Others?”_

“Males.”

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” John puts down his sports statistics and looks at Sherlock.  His ears are turning pink. 

“Why do think I’m --”

“Don’t play this whole ‘virgin with splayed legs’ thing with me.”

Sherlock drops his eyes to his monograph and huffs.  “You disappoint.”  Soon the corners of his mouth start twitching and he bites the inside of his lip to stop laughing.  He has felt John process that, hit a wall, and turn toward another interpretation; the furrowing of his eyebrows is nearly audible.

 _John is not likely to read now,_ Sherlock decides.  _Excellent._

John disappoints, indeed.  He picks up his magazine and returns to sports statistics without as much as a sigh. 

Two can play that game, after all.


	47. Not pictures

John is standing in the tiled foyer of the _Glen Burns_ club; his progress into the great room has been impeded by an older male secretary whose mode of dress and behaviour remind him very much of Mycroft’s ( _and Lawrence’s, come to think of it_ \-- John shakes his head and sighs).

“Yes, sir, but you’re not a member," the secretary protests.

“As I said, I would like to know when can I speak to Mr. Collingwood.  That’s all.”  John cocks his chin up and plasters on a smile.

“May I ask what your business is with Mr. Collingwood, Doctor Watson?”

“A work of art in Sir Hutcheonthorpe’s collection upstairs.”

“I see.  One moment please.”

Lawrence emerges after several minutes and greets John kindly.  The secretary vanishes discreetly.  Lawrence and John exchange pleasantries and John asks, “I saw a picture when I was here recently that I was interested in.  This might be a bit unusual, but are any of the pictures along the stairwell for sale?”

“Strictly speaking, they are not, no.  They belong to our founder’s personal estate, which is managed by our Board.”

“Oh, well, you lend some of them to museums, you said, right?”

“We do, frequently, yes.”

“Would it be possible to borrow one of them for scanning?  I could leave something as collateral for it.”

“If it were to be damaged or lost -- that would need to be approved by the Board, naturally.”

“Okay.  But you wouldn’t have any objection to me photographing it myself, here?”

“Of course not.  Which is it?  I can take it down for you.”

“Oh, well, uhm, it’s upstairs.  Maybe we’ll just.  Could we?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

John counts the stairs when he is on the second staircase, until he arrives at the eleventh from above; he is startled to find a small, colourful lithograph of a team of locusts pulling an Egyptian-style chariot, filled with topless ladies in mummy-wrap corsets, in awkward profile.  The erotic picture of the officers is nowhere to be seen. 

“Yes, this is comical, indeed, dating to the discovery of Tutankhaten’s tomb in 1922,” Lawrence remarks, and reaches for it.

“No, it was another one.  From the Great War.  One of the more -- uhm, daring works.”  John glances about.  He counts again.  He _is_ on the correct stair.  And the other pictures surrounding the dreadful locust chariot seem unchanged. 

“Ah, yes.  There are several with wartime motifs.  Down this way.”

They descend a dozen more steps and Lawrence indicates the print of the girl in uniform showing her bum to two officers, which John had noticed during his previous visit to the club.

“No, it wasn’t that one,” John says.  Lawrence points out another near it.  “No, not that one either, I guess you’ve changed some things?”

“No, we won’t be rotating the display again until December, for Christmas.  You’re very welcome to visit and see it, however.”

John feels like a twit.  “Okay, then.  I’ll plan to. I must have been mistaken about the location of the print.”

“Do visit us.  Give my regards to your colleague, Mr. Holmes.”

“Of course, thank you for your time.”

John leaves the club rather puzzled and disappointed.  Apparently the snapshot on his phone will have to suffice, though he would like to have a better copy of it.  He writes to Sherlock.

                _Dinner at 7?  I want to take you out finally._

_Another day.  Break-ins in West Ken.  Will text later.  SH_

_Re. Vienna, another delay.  SH_

_Too bad, can’t wait to go.  Missing you today._

***

Lestrade has invited John for a pint and John has asked Sherlock to join them.  As he often does, Sherlock has refused to come at the start. 

Lestrade wants information, for his own satisfaction, though he also wants to offer his congratulations, if it seems they are in order or wanted.  He genuinely likes both men; the idea of them being involved has given him reason for pause and reflection on his own messy life, and for a man-to-man chat with John, whose brains he’d _really_ like to pick about it.

They talk about Jim’s illness, exchange some concerns about aging and sick acquaintances, gripe about the fall rain, and discuss several cases that Lestrade has been working on; he complains about personnel changes that are about to take effect just above him.  They are well into their second pints when he decides to put forward a variant of the question that John has been expecting since his arrival. 

“So you and Sherlock.  Yeah.”

 _Get it over with._ John clears his throat.  “Yeah.” 

“So.  Didn’t see _that_ one coming for ages.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone thought what they thought.  I know what people said.” 

“Well, you were living together for a while and --”

“That was a long time ago, not like some other things didn’t, yeah.”  _Shit._

“Mhm, but working together, you know, all that time, just.”

“No.  I mean.  This isn’t about, I don’t know, a fuck buddy from work, or one day we were just, you know.  No.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t be, I guess.”

“No.  It’s not that simple.  Simple -- wrong word.  It just works.  Didn’t expect it to happen and can’t really explain it.  But.  Just, you know.”  _Jesus, I sound like a complete idiot._

“Is it, like, for the long-haul, or?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you _serious_?”

“Well, yeah.”   _So what?_

“But you’re, I mean, you’re not -- okay, I mean you were married, so -- hmmph.”

John’s jaw stiffens.  Then he takes a breath and says, “I’m not fighting it.  I still feel like the same person.”

“Yeah.  I see what you mean, but, it’s, yeah.  I kind of never thought of him as _gay_ , either.  Just sort of -- himself.”  Lestrade is clearly struggling with the intricacies of this conversation.

“Yeah.” John rubs at his chin. “That’s the thing.  The more you start trying to put it into words, the more you have to resort to things that don’t work.  Don’t apply.”

“Don’t judge you for it either way,” Lestrade tells him.

“Cheers.”  They clink their glasses on that and sip for longer than they usually might.

“He’s not an easy person to -- be around,” Lestrade remarks, uneasily.  “You kinda calmed him down, though.”

“Not my intention.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Who knows.”  

“Good on you, though, if you’re happy, that’s all right.”

“Should be here by now, actually,” John says, looking at his watch.

“Yeah.  Well, did you see the game on Friday night?”

“No, just the highlights.  Read about it.  Why, any good?”

About five minutes later, Sherlock descends into the pub and throws a weighty look over the entire interior; when his eyes settle on John, they brighten for a moment, just before Lestrade notices him and waves him over. 

“What’ll you have?” Lestrade asks him.  “I still owe you one for the strangled Pole.”

“I ought to be aiming for a higher failure rate,” Sherlock replies, looking critically at the tabletop as he pulls up a chair and sits down.  “Your liver is becoming a victim of my success, Lestrade.”

John snorts.  “Not only Greg’s.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what’ll you have,” Lestrade says, still chary of being criticised for drinking.

“Beer with a double shot of whiskey in it.  John wants me to leave pissed tonight.  That’s why he asked me here.”

“Excuse me?” John says, as his ears turn (an alarming shade of) pink. 

“That’s what people go to pubs for.  Honestly, John,” Sherlock says, waving toward Lestrade. “You’ve just as well as confirmed it to him.”

“Nah, we were talking about something else,” Lestrade says, verbally digging a hole under himself, as he does so soundly when Sherlock is watching his face.

Sherlock smirks at him.  “It’s like looking through double-glazing, you are both so utterly transparent.” He folds his arms and slouches back in his chair.

“So beer and whiskey?” Lestrade asks, standing up.

“Joking,” Sherlock tells him.  “I don’t want anything.”

“All right.  But I’ll get you another, John,” Lestrade says, standing up from his chair.

“Cheers,” John says.

“Don’t make me sit here,” Sherlock says, leaning forward and fixing a warm gaze on John as soon as the DI is gone.  “Finish it as quickly as you can without harming yourself and we’ll go home.”

“You surprised me just now,” John says, “I have to admit.”

“Did I?”

_“’That’s what people go to pubs for’?”_

“Or is it to find someone attractive and take him home?” Sherlock says, in a low voice.

“Not within two minutes of arriving.”

“So how many?  Apparently I’m not an expert.”

“Don’t put us on a schedule, yeah?” John answers.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You most certainly would.”

“Leaving for Sheffield in the morning.”

“Sheffield?  What’s on?”

“Not sure, just received word an hour ago.  From the sound of it, a kidnapping.  They need advice and leads.  You’ll have to go get your things, we’re leaving at six-twenty in the morning from St Pan --”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“Right you are.  Finish your drink quickly so you can go home and pack.”

“Sherlock, I’ve been off.  I go back tomorrow eight to five.  Can’t.”

Lestrade returns and sets down the beers.  “What,” he says, because Sherlock looks like he is trying to decide whether or not he wants to throw everything off the table.  He is.  He settles on lacing his hands tightly across his stomach.  “Here you go, John,” Lestrade says, pushing a pint toward John.  “Well, the Polish man’s body is on his way home today.”

“Killed for asking for his own back wages.  A meagre amount, at that.  Really sad,” John says. “Just disgusting what people will do for a few quid, I mean.”

Sherlock is still glaring down at the table.

“Yeah.  Poor bloke.  Rest his soul.”  Lestrade nods.

“Yeah.” John goes quiet.  He is biting at the inside of his cheek, sadly.  

***

John and Sherlock have (finally) left the pub and got a cab.  John is trying to decide whether to stay at Baker Street or go home.  As they go, Sherlock is staring down at his phone.  “Mmmm,” he hums to himself.

“What.”

“Well.  I’m going away.  And you refuse to come along, so I’m downloading a few photographs.”

“Photographs?”

“For myself.”

“You -- really?”

 _Possessive, tipsy John._   Sherlock’s lips twitch up into a smile.  “I shouldn’t expect you to understand.  You’ve never been one to look at photographs on your laptop, or your phone, for your own pleasure.”

“Ahhhm -- okay.  But you -- hmm.  You?” 

“I have a few but I wanted something more military this time.”

“Military.  I knew it!  I knew it.”

“And how did you _ever_ work that out.”

“So, what, you think it’s -- ?“

“ _Hot_ , I believe you’d say.”

“Yeah.  Look.  This is awkward.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“What do you _see_ in it?”  John has folded his hands together and he’s chewing his lip. 

“And what do you think I see in it.”

“No.  I don’t know, I can’t imagine you looking at porn of -- guys, okay?”

“Well,” Sherlock says, “you might look, and then you wouldn’t have to imagine it.”

“No way.”

“You, straitlaced?” Sherlock says, and holds his phone up in front of John’s eyes.

John has reflexively winced and made as if to look away, but now he has started gaping at the screen.  “Oh, wow.  Now where did you get that?” he asks.  “Ha.”

“Linda sent on some photos.  She’s been going through them.  You really need to go see her, John.”

“I know, I know, I should.  Did she give you any other ones?”

“Yes, go on.” Sherlock hands the phone to John.

“Oh, ha.  That was a month before I got shot.  Yeah.  We were all on leave, there.”

“Were you?”  _Which of them was it._

“Good times.  Hmmm.  Right.  Any others?” John flicks at the screen with his finger.  “Do you have Jim, too?”

“No.  Just those five so far.  There will be more, though.”

“Hmmm.  Good.  That’s good.”  John rubs a knuckle over Sherlock’s thigh.  After a minute or so he says, “Miss me sometimes?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m right here.” 

“I know where you are,” Sherlock says.  He slips his fingers under the edge of John’s coat.

“Oh yeah --” John groans quietly.  He’s a bit drunk, indeed. 

Sherlock leans closer to him.  “Shhh.  Come with me to Sheffield,” he whispers.

“Can’t.  _Oh_ \--”

“You know I want my soldier.  Not pictures,” Sherlock purrs, near John’s ear.  “It’ll be brilliant, they’ve put me up in a charming place, you’ll like it.”

“No.”  John is melting as he sighs, “Stay with you tonight?”

“No, you’ve been drinking too much this evening.  Sheffield in autumn colours, John.”

“Can’t.  I really can’t.  Don’t play with me, for chrissake.”

“Not playing.  Ah, here we are,” Sherlock says in a normal voice, as the cab pulls up to Baker Street. “I’ll text you.”

He watches Sherlock give a tenner to the cabbie and swish away; as he approaches their door, he gives it a cursory but critical look, as he always does.  _Our door?  Pretty much._   John shakes his head and grits his teeth.  He leans forward to tap on the glass and gives his address to the cabbie; they carry on toward his flat.  John is already suffering.

***

_More red oaks than in Regent’s P.  Scenic.  SH_

_Take some photos.  Miss you already._

***

_Kidnapping for ransom, ransom paid, missing victim.  SH_

_Nasty.  Wish I were there._

_Victim’s house very suggestive.  Planted bio evidence.  SH_

_You’ll solve it.  Should have gone._

***

_Looking for body.  Fascinating case.  Photo of orange maples in forest.  SH_

_Beautiful, looks very nice._

***

_One suspect dead.  Suicide with note!  Didn’t act alone.  SH_

_Best case in months.  Local force amenable to advice.  SH_

_Train at 18:15 or 18:57 from St Pancras.  SH_

                                _When are you coming home, my love?_

_Tomorrow or Friday.  Arrest pending discovery of body.  No confession.  SH_

_I miss you.  Will text later.  SH_

John smiles and looks at his watch.  _Do you, then?_   He finishes work in just over half an hour.  At five. _Doable._ He  decides he will surprise his phoenix.   _And spend a warm night admiring the autumn leaves in Sheffield._

***

While he is on the 18:57 northbound train, with a novel in his hand, John receives another text from Sherlock:

                _Body unearthed, soaked in corrosive, ID difficult.  Continuing in the morning.  SH_

_Where are you now?_

_Bath.  Bored.  You?  SH_

_A dull & colourless place with horrid food._

_Could be anywhere in England.  More precisely?  SH_

_Hard to state exact location.  Well past Loughborough._

_Excellent.  Whitley Hall.  SH_

John’s train is delayed in Derby and he arrives in the late evening, close to 10.  He takes a cab from the station and arrives at a large stone manor which he sees at first glance will outclass the hotel in Norfolk for its beauty and gardens.  The cab driver had remarked that it is a landmark.  It is completely dark, but John makes out the forms of lush plants, large, ancient trees and a small lake nearby.  There is a light, cold rain falling as he walks toward the entrance and he shivers.  As he reaches for the door, two peacocks, roosting somewhere above in the trees, call out to each other; he nearly jumps back from the door ( _train coffee_ ) and then starts laughing at himself for it.  Thus he walks into the reception with even more adrenaline than he’d already had, at the thought of seeing his friend.  _Christ._ The place is stunning inside, bright, and furnished in antiques.

When he has passed the reception desk (they appear to have been expecting him), he sees that Sherlock is in a common room, in a large chair, reading.  When he hears John’s step he puts his phone and journal down. 

He is well suited to the room -- or it to him, more like it, as John doesn’t really take in much else.  He sits down near Sherlock in a dark, carved armchair with stylised gryphons on its leather armrests.  He curls his hands over their little heads and runs his fingers over them in a few light circles.    _Hello_ seems inadequate in such a setting and when there are many other things he would like to say.  He breathes.  _Want you, beautiful --_

“I missed you, too,” he says.

“Clearly,” Sherlock replies, and breaks into a warm smile.

“Nice place here,” John says, looking about the room.  “And...it has peacocks.”

“16th century.  The peacocks are newer.  Would you like anything?”

“I would.”

Sherlock looks at him carefully with dark, mad eyes.  He doesn’t answer.  He instead stands and takes a key from his pocket and gives it to John; he tells him to go upstairs without him and unpack.  When John has gone, Sherlock steps outside for a moment to take in the evening air ( _clean rain and grass; late geraniums_ ); he types out a final text. ( _German this time_.)

_Wisse, dass es genug ist zu wissen, dass es schwierig ist.  SH  *_

The reply is nearly immediate: 

                                _Militat omnis amans_. _Alex_

Sherlock chuckles and powers off his phone.  _Volleying Ovid about, at a time like this -- then again, why not?_

___________

* _Texts:_

_Know, that it is enough to know, that it is difficult.  SH_

_Every lover is a soldier.  Alex  [Or:  Love is warfare]_


	48. I would just

When he comes into (what is now their) room, Sherlock finds John standing at the bathroom sink, washing his hands and face in warm, soapy water.  “John,” he says from the doorway.  “As you are, come.”  John looks up at him curiously.  He rinses and towels off his face and comes closer.  Sherlock smooths his damp fringe aside with his fingertips.  “Brilliant that you’re here.”  He puts an arm around his back. 

“Brilliant to be here.”  John holds him tightly.

“How was your day.”

“What?”

“Back at work.”

“Yeah, I was.  Your texts were the most exciting part.  Even the one about leaves.”  John pulls away and rubs his forehead a bit.  “Twenty-one patients, one didn’t show, only two certifiable hypochondriacs this time, though.  Gastric and liver pain, acid reflux, seasonal migraine, bronchial distress.  And a referral to a cardiologist.”  He looks at Sherlock and bites his lip.  “It was good to spend a few days, wasn’t it.  Hard to go back and sit there, today.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock smiles.

John leads Sherlock by the small of his back toward the bed and they seat themselves in the middle of it, just in front of each other.

“Your case?  Best in months?” John asks, resting a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“Yes.  So far I’ve reconstructed most of the poker game, where it all began.  Three players.  Friends.  Based it initially on fingerprints but also crumbs, in the carpet and on the table top, matching them to dishes in the sink, saliva on flatware, and prints on glasses.  Rings on the tabletop speak volumes, as well.  One player runs out of money and in jest, bets a crime, they spontaneously begin to play for it, and by the end of the game, they’ve decided that the loser will kidnap a neighbour, known to them all.  And they concoct a ransom scheme.”

“Oh shit.  And it ended in a forest.”

“Yes.  I’ll explain everything in the morning before we leave, over breakfast.  It will help me order my thoughts.”

“Right.” John would gladly hear the rest, but Sherlock has already moved on.

“I have a different story for you, now,” Sherlock says, pulling his legs around to sit crosswise. 

John is already excited.  “Oh, do you?”

“Mmm.  Yes.  About a watch.”  Sherlock looks at John intently.  (He has had this tale in mind for some time.  Today he had thought of it again as he’d watched technicians working over a shallow grave --  _Buried face-down --_ _guilt, an acquaintance_.  _An attractive but damaged watch on the left arm, which was disfigured by acid to obscure evidence of torture -- cigarette burns and razor cuts, like those on the thighs.  A potent image by way of contrast to perished tissue, caked in dirt -- fascinating --_ )

He sucks in his breath. “In particular Alex’s, which was hand built by a Swiss master in the early 1960s for his great uncle.”

“Oh,” says John, putting out his hand and running a thumb over Sherlock’s (third-to-topmost) shirt button.  He plucks it open; two more follow.  

“And.  Since the uncle was compelled to marry a woman of standing, against his own nature, the balance of probability is that it was a gift from the mother.  The watch is certainly engraved with a dedication inside because Alex won’t let me open it.”

“Really.” John reaches into Sherlock’s shirt.    

Sherlock’s eyes have darted from his own hands, which are resting on his knees, to John’s.  _John has cut down his nails._   He shivers.  He’d managed to overlook it before. 

“Are you cold, love?”  John asks.

“No.  It is in pristine condition, which is understandable, because the uncle worked for several decades as a radio singer in a quartet.  The watch has a noisy mechanism, so he couldn’t wear it around the microphones.”

“Really -- “  John has leaned in and his mouth and tongue are closing lightly over Sherlock’s left collarbone. 

“Mmmm.”  Sherlock wants to kiss John badly; it is the reason his hands are trembling, he tells himself.  _One of four reasons.  No, five.  Probably._   He takes a short breath and continues.  “My story includes an analogy that occurred to me when we were at Jens’ roof garden.”

“All right.” John nips his throat with his lips.  (It tickles.)

“-- After you told Jim about your decision to pursue a relationship.  With me.”  He stops and looks expectantly at John, who finally pauses and nods, as though that fact needed affirmation. 

“What else,” John says, slipping his fingers down his friend’s shoulder.

“I regarded your hand -- your taking _my_ hand -- as another example of imprudence from your side but  I soon understood that you were expressing your loyalty and willingness to endure difficulties from outside.” Sherlock seems to be measuring out his words very carefully (-- he is _pleasantly_ diverted, but also determined that he will communicate what he has to say to John). 

“Yeah.”

“Which are inevitable.”

“We’ll get by, though,” John answers.  “Go on.”

“A point of interest is that Alex’s watch is _self-winding_.  Which offers up an interesting analogy.  More parable than erotic exploit.  John.” 

John looks up and sees that Sherlock is staring at him again.  “Okay,” he says gently, and pays him more mind.  He crawls back toward a stack of pillows beneath the low headboard and holds out his arms to Sherlock, who comes and curls up between his legs.  John still thinks he looks cold.

“It concerns dependence.  It begins from the watch itself,” Sherlock explains, rubbing his cheek against John’s chest.  He presses his ear to John’s heart and speaks precisely, as if reciting from memory:  “The hands and face of the watch are skillfully engraved.  They are distinct and artfully made.  They give expression to the final outcome of the manifold, complex but unseen movements taking place below in the mechanism.  And, the hands and face are enough for most, because they are _informative_.  One would tend not to open the watch, unless it is in need of repair, though someone may wish to satisfy his curiosity and glance inside, or want to understand all the intricacies of how it functions.  But most are put off by its horrid ticking and would never want to open it, much less remain in the same room with it for long.  A self-winding mechanism has one clear advantage, in that it allows its wearer to indulge in a certain forgetfulness -- he doesn’t have to remember to wind up his watch at night, because it is usually already very wound up, indeed.” He chuckles strangely.  His speech has finally slowed.  “But, humour aside.  Watch and wearer are vulnerable.  Obviously.  But the watch more so.  Consider the significance of the arm.  Without its habitual movement, the mechanism slows, its reliable measurement is suspended, and the watch, as attractive as it may objectively be in its craftmanship and mechanics, will stop and become completely purposeless to anyone, unless someone cares for its ornamental qualities.  Though that is unlikely to be enough.  With time.  Over time, I should say.” 

John is impressed by what he is hearing and is reflecting on it as Sherlock adds, “I had in mind your arm, and myself as that machine.  Wound on your movement.  I told you that day on the rooftop, remember.”

“I remember.” John pushes back the wild locks of hair that are slipping down his friend’s forehead and pets him.  “And that’s a great story,” he remarks.  “You must have thought that through for a while.”

“Yes.”

“You should write it down.”

“I have you for that.” Sherlock rubs his temple against John’s chest.  (He smells wonderful.)  “Include the fact that your wrists are ideal, I didn’t convey that clearly,” he says. 

John runs a hand down Sherlock’s neck and traces light circles over his shoulder; Sherlock would gladly save them all somehow, if not just to appreciate the depths they seem to warm him to.  He closes his eyes.  _Keep them.  Die this way.  Die warm --_

“Look at me, love,” John says.

Sherlock puts up his head.  “Mmm?”

“I want -- ”

“Yes.”

John swallows.  “Tell me,” he says. “If you want me to stop.”

“Don’t stop.”

John’s hand closes over Sherlock’s shoulder; if the circles had been like gentle ripples, he is now plunging his fingers into his skin.  He looks at Sherlock squarely.  “I love you.”

“Again, don’t stop.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitch up. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.”

“I’ve come all the way from London to be with you tonight.”

“Yes.  Thank you.”

“You might kiss me.”

“I might.”

“Teasing,” John says.

“No.”  Sherlock leans forward.  “Not teasing.  Waiting.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.”

John closes his eyes as Sherlock takes his chin in his hand and draws it closer.  The anticipation is nearly as gorgeous as the heat of John’s breath as it rushes through Sherlock’s nerves.  Love makes him want such impossible things, so urgently, so often, and so uncontrollably _.  A lack of proportion?  Yes.  Unimportant_.  John is catching Sherlock’s lips in his own, sucking at them gently, running a hand down the front of Sherlock’s shirt.  He finishes unbuttoning it and pulls it off.  Sherlock’s unrestrained kisses are making his lips ache -- a contrast (he is like a starving man, though John has withheld nothing at all).  As he presses his lips against John’s Sherlock imagines how he would follow every sigh and hum in John’s mouth with his tongue, probing and licking him, following an occasional digression (a shadow memory of other kisses, mixed with his scent and sound, different each time).  He would edge forward and pull all his secrets from his throat, listen, answer, have them, master them, keep them all for himself.  It is a thought that would seem completely alien (absurd, not even his own at all), until he is so close.  John sits back and smiles at Sherlock, just long enough to set off a spark in Sherlock’s eye.  ( _John wants to be undressed.  Beautiful man_.)   He doesn’t particularly care that his fingers are trembling -- he starts with John’s trousers and closes a hand over John’s cock as he nimbly pulls open his shirt with the other.  John finally growls and pulls them all off himself. 

“Not only your wrists,” Sherlock says, breathlessly. 

In a second, John is pushing him onto the bed, kissing him warmly and working open his trousers with one hand, while pinning Sherlock’s left shoulder with the other.  Sherlock tries to push them down, (though his shoulder is mostly useless).  He is already pushing through his pants.  John lets go of Sherlock to shuck them off for him.  “Hmmm.  You want me,” he says, as their tongues touch again.  They kiss until neither of them can breathe freely.  John pushes his cock gently against Sherlock’s and bites his beautiful lip.  He is wet and Sherlock grinds his teeth when he feels it.  John closes his mouth for a moment and inhales through his nose.  “Listen, love,” he says softly.

“Mmm, yes, John.”

“I just --“

“Yes.”

“I want to --“  John rubs his lips against Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. 

John smiles. “Answers like those --”

“Yes.”

“Mad creature.”  John’s fingers slide along Sherlock’s thigh.  His cock bobs, impatiently, just above Sherlock’s stomach.  “I would just --“

“Just what?”

John’s eyes snap to Sherlock’s.  _He’s talking._ “Have my way.” 

“Would you?”

“Hmmm,” John says, “I would.” 

He crawls to the edge of the bed and digs through his shaving kit.  Once covered, he slicks his cock and gazes down at Sherlock.  _Mine._   He drops it and reaches down for one of the long thighs next to him; he takes Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, sucking him gently as he circles him behind with a finger, giving him the smallest tease, rolling his fingertip into him very slowly, until he hears him hum quietly (not a protest -- so he pushes deeper); he licks and sucks, waiting to feel a shudder, before very carefully slowing, and lapping Sherlock’s shaft with firm strokes of his tongue.  The only thing he hears is a series of quiet, broken sighs.  The medical man in him winces as he crosses his fingers and gently works them both in ( _so warm, oh God, want you so bad_ ).  He kisses the inside of Sherlock’s thighs and kisses up Sherlock’s stomach as he moves his fingers, reminding himself -- _be_ _gentle, don’t lose it_.  Then, all at once, Sherlock pulls himself up on his elbows and looks down at John.  “As you were,” he says forcefully, and in a moment he is already up, backing John toward the headboard.  John gapes at him with a growing smile and leans back into the pillows, his knees and aching cock jutting up in front of him.  Sherlock approaches him and kisses him, pressing down his thighs with his hands, and slowly crawls into his lap.  He kisses madly now, stroking his tongue over John’s -- he wants his soldier badly.  John can feel it.  He closes his hands over Sherlock’s arse and pulls him forward so that their cocks  nearly touch.  He is about to take them both in his hand when Sherlock sits up and bends over John to bury his lips and nose in his hair.  “Mmm, John,” he says, running his mouth and fingers through it. 

John’s cock aches at the sound of that voice.  _Talk to me, you gorgeous thing --_ “Yeah --” he responds, nearly melting into it.  He kisses Sherlock’s chest.

“I --”

“Hmmm, tell me, yeah,” John breathes, and closes his eyes.

“Would -- “

“Oh yeah, love  --“

“-- Just have my way.”  And John feels the head of his cock sinking upward, slowly (the tight heat completely unexpected); a long, strangled groan replaces any words he might have meant to say -- in surprise, because he has been quite _taken_.  The man John loves so madly is holding him by the neck and kissing his head, sighing deeply near his ear, and the most exquisite warmth is closing narrowly around him; John looks down at himself and presses his teeth together -- it is _obscenely_ hot.  “You should see,” he breathes, “ _Oh.  You on me now_ \--”  (And that is all he can choke out before his breathing goes heavy.)

“I don’t need to,” Sherlock says quietly.  True:  he can see part of John’s face below his, and it is more than enough for him; raw bliss is rolling through all of his features, smoothing them into an open smile.  He holds John tightly and slowly grinds and thrusts as much as he can bear, taking John more and more deeply until he has all of him inside.  It feels _bizarre_ ( _distractingly so_ ) and for all of his desire, his body and mind are in absolute conflict: the pain of it assails his senses as strongly as the pleasure of hearing John growl and hum underneath him.  And yet both seem to push him forward:  he arches his back -- which hurts even worse, though that movement has also sent a pleasureful shock through his entire abdomen; he moans with his mouth clamped shut, against John’s hair, much louder than he would like to; soon he feels it again and mumbles something mad in John’s ear.  _(Vulgar.  So vulgar --)_   John seems electrified by it, however -- sighing audibly and smiling. ( _He is flattered_ ).  He thrusts gently into Sherlock, easing into his rhythm, and murmurs, “Sherl -- it’s the most.  I’ve.  _Ah -- “_

Sherlock cannot say anything to that.  ( _It_ _hurts_ \-- )  He listens to John pant, “I love you.  Oh, God, how I love.  Oh.”  John puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist and stares at him, smiling wildly.  “Please.  Please, oh, so good,” he moans.  “It’s so good.  Oh, so warm.  Deep.  Ah yeah.”  John is trying not to thrust up into him even harder.  His thighs are trembling and the sight and heat are pushing him over completely.  “So good.  I can’t.  You’re so hot.  Tight -- hmmm.  Oh yeah.  Hmmm -- oh God, love, I can’t.  Oh Jesus.  Oh.  Oh, so, good, love.  Hmm.  More, more, please just that, yeah.   More, oh yeah!  So.  _Ahhh!_   Ah!  Oh Sherlock, love, so good.  Oh, love!  Oh, oh -- oh, f -- oh ffff hmmm -- yeah!  Oh -- I love you -- oh.  So much.  Come -- here, let me hold you.  How I love you.  So good, _perfect_.  You are _so perfect_.  At _everything_.  I’m.  Sorry.  It’s hurt you.  Oh, no.  No, love, stay, let me kiss you.  Don’t go.  Stay here.  I hurt you, so sorry.  But so, so good.  Oh, you.  I love you.”  John catches hold of him and hugs him.  _You are mine.  Mine._

Sherlock sits between John’s legs and bites his own tongue; after some time he starts to say (ironically), “John, forgive me if --” 

John, whose thoughts have gradually wandered back to Sherlock’s tale of the self-winding watch, doesn’t wait to hear the rest and grasps his arm, glaring at him with dark eyes as if he wanted to break him in half.  “You will never apologise for being the dearest person in my life.  Unless you are ashamed of it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over the surge of violent feeling in John’s face. “You know damned well, John, that I have no shame,” he replies coolly.  And winks.

John barks a laugh and drops his arm.  “God, I love you.”  He rubs a light sweat from his forehead and brushes his lips along Sherlock’s neck. “You can’t imagine.”

“I can.”  Sherlock’s heart is still raging in his chest and he is in substantial pain; he does a rapid mental inventory of why and how long it is likely to be as appalling as it is.  John pets him.  He curls up closer to John’s chest again, presses his nose against his skin and listens to him breathe until they are both much calmer. 

“The other bath wasn’t a proper soak by any definition.  Let me go?” Sherlock says.

“I’ll run one for you, love,” John answers, and kisses him just as dotingly.  He slides off the bed and pads into the bathroom; he turns on the taps, quietly humming a tune to himself that Sherlock doesn’t recognise (he will later ask and find out that it is called _Norwegian Wood,_ which tells him nothing).

At the moment, Sherlock feels exactly how much his head is starting to hurt ( _approaching rainstorm_ ).  He is also cold.  He crawls across the bed and digs through his suitcase bag for his dressing gown and swathes himself in it tightly; when that is not enough, he throws aside the visually unwarranted ( _though potentially useful_ ) assortment of pillows and gets under the blankets.

When John comes back out and finds his friend well wrapped and curled up in a ball, he very naturally wants to unwrap him all over again -- and slips under the blankets with him to take him in his arms.  “That was so _amazing_ ,” he says.  He kisses Sherlock sweetly and hugs him.  “Could just have you again right now.”  (Sherlock groans against John’s bad shoulder.)  “Okay.  Just saying.  Go get in.  Need anything else?”

“No.”

Sherlock leaves him and locks himself in the bathroom.  John roots through his travel bag and pulls out his current book -- _The Thirty-nine Steps_.  Because he’s had the Great War on his mind.  In a few seconds, he detects the sound of Sherlock scrubbing his hands at the sink -- a ritual he will probably never see, only hear.

On the other side of the wall, Sherlock is studying himself in the mirror, his pale face and hands still dripping and glistening strangely in the white, diffused light of the lamp just above his head ( _bulbs chosen to stroke the egos of elderly female guests_ ).  His fingers are trembling less than before, he notes.   _Ridiculous to explore guilt rather than the state of shame.  Very western.  Pride and humiliation both require more than one participant and shame is learned behaviour which requires a certain amount of empathy.  Socially sanctioned.  Shame is useful to the law, as is guilt.  Obviously.  Boring._ He rubs his temple.  _My John.  The pulsing of him inside -- perfect.  Beautiful man.  So happy to be loved, by a monster._ He bends forward; he exhales and fogs the mirror lightly; he’d been holding his breath.  _That truly hurt.  How do people function?_ He gazes into the mirror again.  And suddenly laughs to himself.  He has three gray hairs just over his right temple.

He cracks the door open, sheds his dressing down ( _Who did I double-knot this for?_ ) and climbs into the bathtub ( _nnngh -- hot_ ).  And closes his eyes.  

***

“Can I?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and glances up at John.  _Pajama and socks -- room 18 degrees Celsius --_   “Of course.”

John walks into the bathroom and crouches down on one knee beside the bathtub.  He puts a hand down into the smooth surface of the water to pet Sherlock’s chest. “I was already missing you.”

 _A blend of concern and admiration.  Loves me._    “Mmmm.”

“Warm?”

“Yes.” 

“I hurt you a bit.”

 _Tell him?_   “You did.”

“I’m sorry.  Might be normal, though.”

“Might be.”

“Curious what it was like.”

_“Foreign.”_

“And insanely hot.”

Sherlock smiles.

“I love you.” John leans down to kiss Sherlock’s damp head.

“Mmm, John.”

“Reading a good book now, set during the First World War,” John tells him.

“Oh?”

“The protagonists aren’t anything like the blokes on the wall at the _Glen Burns_ , though.”

“No.”

“You know, on a lark I went and asked about that picture.  Thought I might try to get it, or at least photograph it better.”

“You didn’t manage.”

“No, it’s been moved, not there anymore.”

“Would you really want to have _that_?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah,” John says.

“Mmm.”

“You might nick it for me sometime.” John smiles, and leaves Sherlock to his bath.


	49. A brilliant view

_‘”Go into my study, and you will see two doors facing you. Take the one on the left and close it behind you. You will be perfectly safe.”  And this extraordinary man took up his pen again.  I did as I was bid, and found myself in a little dark chamber which smelt of chemicals, and was lit only by a tiny window high up in the wall. The door had swung behind me with a click like the door of a safe. Once again I had found an unexpected sanctuary.  All the same I was not comfortable. There was something about the old gentleman which puzzled and rather terrified me. He had been too easy and ready, almost as if he had expected me. And his eyes had been horribly intelligent....’_

_Sketchy bloke, like Mycroft --_  John hears the water draining away; his friend has yawned and stepped out of the bath; he comes out in his dressing gown (but has left it just loose enough that John wants to pull it open).  Sherlock approaches the bed with a small smile and crawls across to where John is sitting with his book closed over several of his fingertips. 

John puts his lips in Sherlock’s wet hair (wood and lavender).  “Hmmm.  Warmer, love?”  

Sherlock nods.  John sets the book aside and takes one of Sherlock’s long hands and holds it; he kisses it and brings it closer to his chin. “Good,” he says, sliding down next to him; he wraps his leg over Sherlock’s calves and pulls him close by the waist.  “You know what?”

“Mmm.”

“I want to tell you something.” John is looking at him so warmly that Sherlock’s pulse begins to pick up.  “You were incredibly sexy.”  John shakes his head at himself, as if that weren’t enough to say, at all.  “I’m sorry it had to hurt, to be able to share that.  But it felt amazing to be so close to you, finally.”  

Sherlock has been biting the side of his tongue.  He bites down even harder now and nods; he thinks that is one of the nicest things he has ever heard.  He closes his eyes because they are starting to burn.  John’s hands are straying over him gently and it is comforting; his head is in disorder.

After several minutes John puts the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead and then the side of his neck.  “You’re rather pale.”

“No.”

“You’re hurting, love.  You’re pale from it.”

“John.”

“I’m the one who can see it,” John says, kissing Sherlock’s hand again and squeezing it.  “Tell me, what --

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock says too quickly.  (John already has several questions in his face.)  “Really,” he adds.

“Warmish, probably just the bath, but,” John mutters, putting Sherlock’s hand aside and leaning down from the bed to fish out his travel bag.  “Don’t even have a thermometer -- damn it.  Wasn’t thinking,” he glares down at the contents.  “Paracetamol.  No excuses, you’ll have them.” He has opened a metal lozenge box with numerous pills in it and extracted two white tablets. 

_Medical instincts aroused as well_ , thinks Sherlock affectionately.  _A gun, five tablets of codeine and four of diazepam.  For one night with me.  Madman, I’m flattered.  What else have you got in that magic bag of yours?_

John marches to the bathroom, unwraps one of two glasses that are downturned next to the sink, in a basket of ornamental straw with assorted soaps arranged in it, and brings it back to Sherlock, looking determined to hold it out to him for as long as he has to.  Sherlock wraps his hand around it and takes it to his lips without protest.  John folds his hands behind his back and looks down at him; there is an _all right then_ about the way he clears his throat as he takes the empty glass away and goes to wash his hands, out of habit.  Once he is back he holds his friend tightly and strokes the damp, warm, wild head that is resting against his shoulder.  Sherlock tickles his neck with his nose and tongue and laughs at him.  (It feels fantastic.)

_Beautiful John.  It would be too distracting, wasn’t that my argument?   Years wasted building a sustainable state.  Of loneliness.  What was my argument?_

_The work suffers -- its relevance -- shifts too often.  Cannot think.  Unimportant._

“Maybe you’d,” John whispers.  His lips are warm, as are his fingertips as they steal into the folds of Sherlock’s dressing gown, parting them enough to steal a touch or two. “Just a little?”

“Mmmm, John.  Yes.”

“Just a little -- no, leave it on, love, I don’t mind.  Keep it.” 

_He loves me -- so well -- so well.  Like that.  Beautiful man --_

***

John has been roused from a deep state of dreaming; the figures in his head are quickly being replaced by an actuality that is even more appealing:  Sherlock is pulsing with energy, seemingly all over the room at once, pulling on his clothes.  _Gorgeous creature, not a dream.  And mine._  “You’re -- what time is it?” John says through his fingers as he yawns and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Seven fifty-four.”

“Dressing for -- what’s -- on?” John pulls himself up in bed and watches Sherlock groggily; his friend buttons his cuffs and tucks in his shirt, zipping his trousers carefully over his shirttails; as he pivots away to reach toward the bedside table for his watch, it occurs to John (once again) that Frederick is a genius.  John appreciates clothes that beg to be removed, enjoying the invitation and the challenge they present him, and he has decided that Sherlock’s newest trousers are a new paragon in that category.  He licks his lips ( _have to stop doing that_ ) and looks again. 

“Sergeant Hopkins is interrogating the two remaining kidnappers this morning, at nine.  He is a skilled poker player himself, which is useful....” Sherlock remarks.

“You said the crime started from -- a bet, right?” John asks.

“Yes.”  Sherlock snatches up his phone, which has started vibrating against the bedside table.  “Yes?  Mmm.  Of course.  One moment.”

“What’s going on?”

“Coming?”

“And, breakfast?”

“Precisely.  Breakfast is with Hopkins.” Sherlock’s eyes are fairly glittering at the idea of it.

“Where?” John groans.

“Downstairs, obviously.”

“I think I’ll --“

“Come, John.”

“Uhm.  If you.  Yeah.  I’ll get -- dressed.”  John yawns and rubs his head.  “Join you in a few.”

Sherlock has already picked up his jacket and swished out of the room; the door clicks shut behind him and John grabs a pair of cords, buttons himself into an Oxford shirt, and pulls on a cardigan, which he buttons up halfway before smiling to himself.  He has already started imagining it all being unbuttoned by Sherlock’s beautiful, quick fingers.  _Better sooner than later._   John exhales, blinks hard, and clears his throat.  He washes his face and hands.   _Control is what we do._ He grabs his book and leaves the room.  He jogs down the stairs to the breakfast room, reciting a list of former prime ministers present to past as he goes.    

He is already back to John Major when he spies Sherlock in a corner of the dining area, seated across from a mustached, balding man with longish sideburns, who (with pursed lips) is nodding steadily as he listens; he is tapping a toothpick nervously against the tabletop in his fingers.  John nears the table, looks over what they already have (Sherlock has a mug of coffee, which he is rapidly draining) and smiles briefly in greeting as they both nod to him and keep talking. 

John decides he’ll go get himself a plate.  He saunters along the length of the buffet table and chooses breads, meats, cheeses, pickles, a small bowl of oatmeal and two apples.  He comes back to the table to leave it and hears that Sherlock is referring to an arrangement of furniture, as the sergeant nods enthusiastically.  John makes himself a cup of tea and a second cup of coffee for his mad phoenix, with far too much sugar in it.  He gingerly carries them back across the room and sets them on the table.  Sherlock takes the mug and keeps talking and sipping, though his lips have twitched up a bit at the corners.  _Happy with the four bloody huge spoons of sugar -- bleh_ , thinks John.   _Just this once, love._

Sherlock has moved on to several deductions based on the crime scenes in the house and in the forest.  Some of them seem known to the sergeant, whereas others are entirely new and speculative:

“ -- And Jackson fancies himself a good bluffer.  Remember.  Patience, and a succession of details.  Suggest he was clumsy.  Point out the mistakes he made, however minor.  The pillows, remember.  The position of the fourth chair --“

John is spreading a pat of butter over the slices of bread in front of him.  He has an exquisite image in his head.  He runs the knife back and forth over the bread.  Scraping.  Spreading.  Sherlock.  Has taken nearly his entire cock.  In gorgeous half-thrusts.  The muscles in his stomach are flexing ( _so fucking hot_ ).  His sighs.  Subtle, even and deep, like his hips.  Rocking.  ( _Oh God, yes.)_  And when he could feel ( _okay, hear -- I was losing my bloody head_ ) him coming, he’d arched his back.  ( _So deep.  Oh yeah._ )  Ground his hips.  Into every thrust.  His sighs had gone deeper. Beautiful, hushed groans.  ( _Amazing_ \--)

“-- And you want him to lose ground inch by inch.  He’s a recidivist.  Isn’t afraid of another sentence.  He’s afraid of losing _face_ , so undermine his confidence.  Simmons -- feels compunction, but saw the least.  Jackson raped, burned, cut, and strangled the lady, all in the presence of _Thomas_.  Simmons saw the first moments of the rape but could not have seen the torture nor the moment of strangulation.  Thomas did --“

_How did I live without this.  How did I ever not see it.  What else am I missing, damn it, being so blind -- look at him -- talk.  Sergeant can’t believe his own luck.  Case solved, sucker, you’d never manage without him and you know it._

“At which point he _related_ it to Simmons, who’d left in the meantime and brought back that half litre of nitric acid at Jackson’s request.  Remember the sequence of events there.  Break Simmons by reminding him, point by point, of his _complicity_ , particularly toward the sexual deviations in the crime which were taking place in his absence, when he might have called for help and saved the woman’s life.  Shame him.” 

Sherlock takes a long sip of coffee.  He feels that John is staring at him, proudly.  He goes warm inside. 

“Emphasise _shame_ , not _guilt_.  The difference is crucial, here.  Ask why he insisted that she be buried _fully clothed_ , down to the undergarments and why _he_ didn’t remove the lady’s watch before Jackson poured acid over the cigarette burns and slash marks on her arms and legs.  And why _he_ insisted she be buried _face down_.  Ask him why he lost his balance _as he dug_ ; his right shoe toe was scraped; he _missed_ the shovel, many times.  Intoxicated, but also fearful.  Half of the grave was dug deeper than the other.  Haste!  They were completely alone, no objective need for haste.”

The sergeant's head is still bobbing in deep thought and agreement.  His toothpick is now dull at one end from being pounded and ground nervously into the tabletop.  John arranges meat, cheese and pickles evenly on the layer of butter.  He is still fighting an erection.  Giving up.  His mind drifts to the warmth pushing over him, the pressure on his cock.  The first shock of it.   _Sliding up into him, sharing that.  The way he moves -- holy Christ -- so good.  Hmm, the way you rode me, gorgeous -- could just fuck you for hours.  God, I’m losing it.  Want you so bad.  You’re hurting.  God, so sorry.  I hurt you --_   

“Simmons was threatened with disfigurement as he dug the grave and watched Jackson despoil the lady’s corpse, before hastily covering her in dirt.  Finish with details from Thomas’s suicide note concerning Jackson’s threats.  Play any remorse you get, interrogate Jackson again introducing more details, ad nauseum.  Jackson will break before Simmons.”  Sherlock’s eyes flash as he speaks.  John really wishes he could watch Sherlock take down the scum, himself. 

The detective carries on at the same pace for another ten minutes.  The sergeant is sweating visibly.  Finally he looks at his watch and apologises.  “It’s a pity they changed their minds above, you might have watched it.  I don’t know how to thank you.  I really can’t thank you enough at all.  We’d still be looking for ‘er, I reckon.  Animals would’ve got to her,” Hopkins says. 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock says simply.  He is glowing.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  Thank you.  We’ll be in touch when I’ve broken them both, heh.  Thank you, again.  Pass on my greetings to Gregory Lestrade.  Good day, Dr. Watson.  Got to run.”

Hopkins leaves them.  John has buried his teeth in one of the sandwiches.  Sherlock takes one and starts nibbling on it distractedly.

“You were brilliant,” John says between bites, watching Sherlock’s beautiful lips as he eats.   “You know they wouldn’t have _anything_ on those bastards without you.”

“I wanted to watch it,” Sherlock says, his eyes slipping over John’s chest.  “But as you heard, my work is done.  John --”

“What.  Are you all right?”

“Excuse me.” Sherlock has suddenly got up and left John at the table. 

John opens his book and starts reading; he takes the rest of his tea in his mouth reflectively.  When Sherlock returns in a few minutes, he is reading something on the screen of his phone. 

He sits down across from John, who has just flinched at the sound of a peacock outdoors; he scowls and swears to himself as he turns a page.  Sherlock smirks at him over his phone.

_Und wie geht’s in Sheffield?  Alex_

_Kaffee mit Ausblick.  SH_

_Was für ein Ausblick hast du da?  Alex_

Sherlock springs up from the table again and goes to the reception desk to have a quick exchange with the lady there; when he comes back, he is holding a pencil _(chewed by two different people -- repulsive)_ , and several pieces of scratch paper.

“John,” Sherlock says firmly, as he perches on the edge of his chair.  “Don’t move.”

“What.  Oh.  Now?  Hmmph --”

“Read!  One chapter.  Please.”

“But if I piss myself, it’s your fault.  Remember.”

 My brilliant view.  SH

 

_[Attachment] Mein genialer Ausblick.  SH_

_OMG  Er liebt dich wirklich.  Alex_

                                _Sehr gut gemacht!_ _;)_ Alex

_____________

* _German texts:_

_And how’s it going in Sheffield?  Alex_

_Coffee with a view.  SH_

_What sort of view do you have there?  Alex_

_[Attachment]  My brilliant view.  SH_

_OMG  He truly loves you.  Alex_

_Very well done ;)  Alex_


	50. A happy man

John wraps two of his sandwiches in napkins and goes back upstairs to the room.  When he opens the door, he finds his friend pacing slowly in front of the window with his hand over his mouth.  Sherlock is upset that he will not continue working on the case.  He doesn’t know what has changed.  Sergeant Hopkins had asked the day before for his assistance with today's interrogation, from behind a double mirror, all morning.  He would gladly go and force his way back into the case, now.  At the same time, he wants very much to take John back to bed -- but doesn’t want to be blunt about it. 

Now, John is standing next to him, looking out keenly at the lake and the trees that surround their hotel.  Sherlock gazes at him.  _Beautiful John, thinking how it would make for a stunning postcard though he never sends them.  Measuring the ages of those oak trees with his eyes (dark blue at this precise angle), and imagining rowing beneath them -- now glowering at the nasty clouds overhead and cursing them for making rowing a complete impossibility.  His eyes drop to the lawn again -- searching for peacocks to pick off with his handgun_.  _Just ask me what I’m up for.  Ask me._   Sherlock smiles to himself. 

“So.  Yeah.  What are you wanting to do this morning?” John asks, biting his lips. 

“There’s a botanical garden nearby.  You might go see it.  We’re finished here,” Sherlock says off-handedly, though he is sure his face has given him away. 

And it might have given him away, if John had been looking at him.  He seems quite absorbed in the view, however -- _too much so.  Came to see -- me, after all.  You always know what to do.  Don’t stop knowing things, now. Of all times._

“Nah, what for.  It’s about to start pouring rain, look,” John says, leaning against the window sill and peering down at the grounds again.  “I was thinking we should go back to London after lunch.  I’m on call tonight and I have a few errands, need to meet the landlord, get some shopping, yeah.  A meter at my flat’s gone wacky, did I tell you?”

“I’ll fix it for you.  Tonight.”

“Well?  What do you think?  One, or two?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over John’s body.  _Steady hands, eyes wide, licking his lips, a light sweat on his brow. Knees locked.  Stiff at the waist.  Mundane topics, planning activities.  You are well aware.  Admire the view, soldier.  You saw when I was drawing you.  Not exactly trying to hide it --_ “One or two, what.”

“O’clock,” John says lightly, catching the irony in Sherlock’s voice a split second too late. 

“No.” Sherlock huffs.  “You’ll go without me.  I have one more person to see.”  

“Where.  Who -- _hmmm_.”  Sherlock has just wrapped his arms around John’s chest from behind.  His lips are ghosting down the side of John’s neck.  “Who are you -- hmmm, that feels.  Yeah.”  John sighs. “Listen, let me -- uhm.” _Have a shower --_

 _“No.”_ Sherlock’s fingers have reached for John’s nipples and clavicles.  John’s body is already tensing for more.

“Oh, that’s.  Good.”

 _Nnngh...talk:_ “Aroused when you woke up.  Dreaming of me?  Or of someone else?”  _Nnngh!_

 “You, in fact, you, yeah.  Riding me, in my armchair.  Hmm --” John smiles as he feels Sherlock’s tongue behind his ear, and turns his head toward it.  “Kiss me --“

“ _Your_ armchair.  Yes.  And again at the table, downstairs?  Were you thinking of me then, too?” _I should hope so --_

“Yeah, hard not to after -- hmm.  Your mouth -- let me -- kiss you...”

Sherlock’s hand is slipping down John’s stomach.  “Your breathing was _obscene_.  Making _sandwiches_.”  _It was brilliant._

“Blame me?”

“I was talking rubbish, to Hopkins, because of you,” Sherlock says, very low.

“ _My_ fault you talked rubbish?”

“Couldn’t think.”  _Very true, like now.  Think!_  “I almost sent you out, with the peacocks.”  _Should have.  And then saved you from them --_

“Ha.  You wouldn’t do that to me,” John says, grinning down at the gardens below.  Sherlock’s lips and nose are brushing his nape.  _Talk to me, I’m going to fuck you long and slow, you gorgeous thing.  Oh.  It’s.  My.  Turn.  Hmm...._ And a blur of cases, patients, films, army friends, and fantasies hits his mind’s eye like an open-handed smack to the forehead.

“I hardly finished that sketch.”  Sherlock has started undoing John’s trousers from behind, much as John had been imagining it, not an entire hour before, while trying to force a stubborn erection into them; he sighs as his cock is freed and Sherlock’s fingers close around it --  “I was thinking about how I want you to be _mine_ ,” he hears in his ear.   _Christ, that voice._   “Perfect.  Just as you are, here.”

“-- Here --”

“Yes.”

John can feel and hear Sherlock behind him, unzipping and taking down his own trousers with his free hand. 

“Ha,” John says, to himself.  _Oh, fuck yeah.  This is happening.  Yeah.  Sex with a view -- oh, hmmm.  Insane-ly-hot.  But --_ John catches himself staring at the colours of the trees.  _Not like this --_

“Please give me.  What you had last night.  _That_ _bottle_ ,” Sherlock says, against his neck.

“There,” John says, nodding toward the bedside table (lamp).  He fixes a stare over the lakewater.  _Ripples, from the wind.  Pretty.  But not like this.  Breathe!_ He can’t make out all of the sounds he is hearing behind him.  After several lengthy moments Sherlock circles an arm around John’s stomach.  He is rubbing his slick cock against John’s arse.  _Very.  Hard._ John closes his eyes as he feels Sherlock’s tongue flick over his neck; one of his long fingers is pushing lightly into him --  “ _Ah_ \-- ” John moans.  His body remembers _acute pleasure -- yes --_  and John is already waiting to feel it again; he focuses on the progress of that finger.  _Fingers!  Two --  “Ahhh, yeah --”_  

 _But --_ John’s hands curl over the window ledge. _Autumn colours, yellow, orange.  Red._  “Sher --” he says, suddenly regaining his senses for several consecutive seconds, “Sherlock, _stop,_ love --”

Sherlock freezes and his breath catches: he is close to having a fit of coughing, further proof, he thinks to himself, that he is _not_ dreaming.  He rests his nose and lips against John’s shoulder but tightens his arm around him.  “Yes, John.”  Then he looks up, in front of them, at John’s white knuckles on the sash, and anxiety streaks through his heart.   

John stands and turns around in the tight crook of Sherlock’s arm.  “Need to see you,” John says, and puts a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, a gesture that would seem far more forceful if it weren’t contrasted with the openness in his face.

“See,” Sherlock repeats quietly and blinks.  “Oh.”  He has not regained control of himself, but he nods.  He looks as though he’s been knocked completely off balance.  (He has been.)  

John’s tongue flicks lightly against Sherlock’s lips.  As they part, supple and tense against his, he whispers (because it is one of his secrets), “Just have to.”  He hears, in one of Sherlock’s kisses, “Okay.”

John leaves the window and pulls Sherlock loosely after him by the arm, toward their bed.  He sits down but crawls back a bit so that he can take in ( _Mine_ ) his stunning but clearly disorientated man, as he stands at the long edge, looking down at him, left only in an elegant shirt.

John unbuttons his own slowly and stares at him, as the corners of his mouth curl up.  “There’s something I want to ask you,” he says, mirroring Sherlock’s own thoughts.

(Sherlock seems oddly suspended between smile, grimace, embarrassment and fascination.  He is so turned on that the simple act of standing still is an effort, though he is trying his hardest to understand what John wants of him.) 

John puts his chin up, as something delightfully insubordinate flashes in his eyes.  “Never had a soldier, have you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, once.  And smiles.

“Then make it good, love,” John growls, and holds out his arms.  Sherlock is on top of him in a second, kissing him and running his beautiful hands over John’s waist and hips.  His fingers are opening John again, stroking him, petting him, driving him completely mad.  As he’d always wanted to.  He only stops to say, “Tell me when you want me, John.”

When John is almost giggling between kisses and squirming around Sherlock’s fingers, he does tell him:  “I want you -- _now_ \-- ”  He wraps his leg around Sherlock’s back and digs his heel in, nudging him forward.  “Sherlock, how --”

“With all my heart.” Sherlock buries his nose and lips in John’s neck; he picks up John’s other thigh and breathlessly moves into him, slowly, listening closely to John groan and wishing away any pain he is about to cause him.

“Oh _hnnngh_.”  (John is gritting his teeth.) “ _Sher --_ ” he chokes.

“You’re _perfect_ \--“ Sherlock pants in his ear, between his teeth. 

“That’s -- _ex -- treme.  More._   Sherl -- _ahh -- hmmm, yeah.  Thaaat!  Ah, ah yeah._ ”

Sherlock silences John with kisses; he is afraid of losing control and hurting him.  John doesn’t seem to be suffering, however.  He is nearly laughing and trying to catch his breath.  “Yeah.  _More._  Hmmm.  _You can -- faster, ahhh!  Ha!  Ahhh, yeah.  More.  All of it.  Ahhhgh!_ ” John grasps the sheets in his fist and digs his heels into Sherlock’s back.  “It’s -- so -- much!  Can’t.  You’re -- just so -- so!  Ahhh, _love you!_   You are _so fucking good._ Aaahhhh -- more -- _fuck me_ , ahh, yeah -- gorgeous!  _I love you!  Yeah, amazing.  Let go!  Ahh -- yeah --_ ”

***

“Not a conductor.  Light, in every cell.”

Sherlock has returned to bed after scrubbing at his hands twice in the bathroom.  His mind had gone absolutely blank and he hadn’t been able to remember whether he’d already scrubbed them properly or not, so he’d done it again.  He has (worried) John in his arms now, and is smiling against his hair and petting several fiery red marks on John’s shoulder with his grooved fingertips.

“That’s -- beautiful,” John answers.

“Yes.”

“Put you off, probably.  Swore like hell.  Just so _intense_ ,” John is saying as he shakes his head and stares at the opposite wall.  “Lost it.”

“No.  I was occupied with sinking my teeth into your shoulder.  Forgive me.  I don’t understand why I’ve bitten you, again.”   _What on earth must I have been saying.  Ridiculous, vulgar things_.

“Nah.  It’s all good.”

“Okay.”

“You know what I was thinking, while.  Wow.”  John rubs his chin.  “That’s just _abstract_.  Isn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“It feels damned weird.  Sorry, but doesn’t it?”

“True.”

“Really hot, but yeah, you said ‘foreign’. I think that’s about right.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“Enjoyed you.”

“Mmmm.  But it must have hurt you.  It’s horrid.”

“Nah, not the end of the world.  Could use a bath, though.”

“No.” Sherlock rubs his nose in John’s neck and breathes.  “You're perfect as you are now.”

“Yes, and _I_ _could use a bath_.”

“Oh.  I’ll run it for you,” Sherlock says, and stands again.

“Thanks, love.” 

***

“Sherlock.  Hey, come talk to me.  Baths are bloody boring,” John says from the bathtub, where he is soaking in water up to his chest.

“Baths, boring?” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes as he reaches the doorway, with his phone in his hand.

“Yeah, so liven things up, come on.  And bring my sandwiches.  Want one?”

“Yes.” 

“Go on.”

“Should I order some tea to the bath as well?” Sherlock asks, giving him the sandwich after glancing twice at John’s wet hand.

“Yeah, why not.  But you’ll get the door this once.  Answer with your dressing gown open like that.  Looks good.”

***

John has decided he will go back to London on the next train he can catch, and is dressing after his bath.  He’s just finished shaving.  He winces. “Okay, yeah, kind of hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, no.  Okay, cab in ten minutes -- I guess I have...everything.” John fusses with the zipper on his bag. “But where are you going, love?”

“Not related to the case.”

“Want me to come with you?  Where?”

 _Where and when._   Sherlock squeezes his teeth together.  He has thought fleetingly of Mycroft.  “No, no cause for alarm.”

“Didn’t say there was one.”

“Your Slovakian patient’s pen-friend lives in South Anston and I plan to pay him a visit.”

“Ha.  You get around, don’t you.  What do you want to see old Jozef Kováč’s pen friend for.”  John is rubbing his chin and trying not to laugh too openly.  _Seriously?  Do people still have pen friends?  Play chess by post?_

“He has a monograph for me.  Out of print for more than thirty years.”

“About what?  Should I even ask?”

“Of course you should ask,” Sherlock replies.  “Husbandry, during the autumn and winter months.”

“Wh - at?”

“Bees, John.”

“Sure.  Okay.”  John smiles.  “You’re in danger.”

“How is that?”

“You’re about to make me a happy man.  God knows where that could lead.”

“Then you’re in danger, as well,” Sherlock answers. 

“You’ve _no idea_ how I love you right now.” John kisses Sherlock, who very nearly tells John how much he would want to hear exactly _that_ , again and again, for as many _right nows_ as possible.  John hugs him like a vise, and pets his neck with his warm hands.  “Come see me tonight.”

“Bolt yourself in properly.”

“A chair under the doorknob?”

 _They’re always on my side.  Ugly matchsticks._   “No hindrance.” 

“True enough.  See you at home, then.” 

And John is gone.


	51. When it rains

Sherlock has called John over to the living room table; he is peering over Sherlock’s shoulder.  _“‘Suffocations in the manufacture of fermented beverages:  human error, dry ice and CO2’_.  By William S. Scott.  Who?  Oh, hey.  It’s yours?”

“Yep.”

“Where will you submit it?” John asks.

“One of the journals.  Of medical forensics,” Sherlock replies, waving a hand, as if it should be considered trivial and wasteful.  He is, in fact, quite excited.  “In America.”

“Really?”

“Could be useful,” he remarks.

“Yeah.  Of course it could.  About that dead floor sweeper in the wine cask?  I remember that one.”

“Yes, and three other documented cases I’ve found.  Two from Italy, one from Bulgaria.”

“Great that you wrote it up.”

“If you were generous enough to help me flesh out the terminology, I could easily write several a week.”

“Flood the field.  Let them catch up with you.” John wraps his arms around his friend’s neck and kisses his head.  “You should, love.  You should.”

“Mmmm.”

“Write a textbook of them,” John mumbles, and reaches over and scrolls through the text.  “ _Diaphoresis_ would be better here than _perspiration,_ because it's more about it being profuse.”

“Mmhmm, true.”

“And you haven’t included their body masses.  That would matter.”

Sherlock would most gladly grab John and suffocate him with kisses.  “True.  I’ll work it in.”

“You really want me to edit this?”

“Of course.  Who would do it better?”

John looks proud at that.  “Okay.  Now?” (Sherlock nods.) “Make me a couple of sandwiches?  And you’re helping with the soup later.”

“Mmm.”  They switch places and John leans forward toward the screen of the laptop as Sherlock backs off and goes to the kitchen. 

“Uhm.  Sherlock, this sentence is extremely long, I mean, like a paragraph long.”

“Which one?” Sherlock asks from the sink.

“They’re all -- hmm.  These sentences are bloody _Victorian_.”

“No they’re not.  Which ones.”

“The one that starts:  ‘While it may be argued highly unlikely’, about intoxication effects.  Jesus.”

“Yes.  That one positively _floats_.”

“The -- _Wuthering Heights_ of CO2 gas, for chrissake -- and you want to send this to America?“

“I spent several _minutes_ on that sentence.”

“Sure.  Just cutting it into three....”

_“Sentences are not earthworms, John!”_

The next hour and a half pass in a similar fashion.  Sherlock fires off an email and submits the text.  He is glowing inside, and takes a chair over to the sofa so he can sit and make a quick pencil study of John, who has fallen asleep after wrangling with him, nearly physically, over dozens of lengthy ( _but nonetheless gloriously punctuated_ ) lines.

Soon Sherlock decides to slip out (despite the rain that is now falling outside) and sneak a celebratory smoke or two; as he dresses to leave the house, he receives a text from his brother, whose driver is not far away; he sullenly climbs into Mycroft’s car before he is a full three blocks from home. 

***

Nearly two hours later, Sherlock returns to the scent of a woman at Baker Street. 

 _Vanilla-based Dior. Cassandra Hughes_.  Her damp coat (and Will’s) are hanging next to John’s downstairs.  He studies their respective cuffs and rifles through their pockets.  _She doesn’t drive, hoards brown sugar packets from cafes, and chews exotic fruit flavoured gum -- why?_   _Will took a cab home -- receipt_ \-- _12:30 am_ , _alone, last night, habitually keeps his keys in his left pocket, has several tiny repairs to his cuffs.  Sentiment, at least five years old, sleeves never altered and slightly too long for him, button re-sewn on the left cuff, catches on the pocket when he removes his keys, obviously.  Worn at the shoulder, safety belt, long commutes.  Dandruff issues, collar not brushed.  Cassandra, darling, you’re slipping._  As Sherlock ascends the stairs, he hears Sandra and John chatting in the living room and his curiosity is such that he pauses on the stairs to listen in. 

He is also trying to decide how to avoid chatting without irritating John.  _Irritating him further_.  Something is amiss in the way he has sighed.  _On edge.  They have brought news.  Or have refused to meet Linda.  No.  News concerning their clinic._

Sandra says affectedly, “Of _course_ , he’s got a good side to him, _but_ \--“

John hums assent: “Yeah, but he is rude.  Comes across that way to a lot of people, always has.  Puts them off,” he remarks.  He has set down what sounds like a near-empty porcelain teacup.

“You see.  That’s the thing.  Of course, he’s very good at what he does, but his manners leave so much to be desired that I wonder what sort of partner he’d make, in the future, you know, in the long run,” Sandra says. 

“Yeah, I know.  Even at the charity dinner recently he said a couple things that were completely inappropriate,” John says.  “I should have told him off, I might have, then.”

“You really might have, you know,” she says. “It’ll happen again and this is really the best time to nip things in the bud, or just part ways altogether, before you’re more involved and when money comes in.  Well, you know.  Wherever you have money and property you’ll also have dozens of potential hot spots.”

Sherlock’s teeth have started to hurt. _You wouldn’t._

“I wanted to avoid making a scene,” John replies.  “People would talk.”

_You would not._

“I was uncomfortable, I think everyone at the table was.  Katie was, too.”  Sandra has put down her teacup.  A spoon clatters onto the floor.  “Upsie!  Yeah.  And the drugs!  Who’d ever guess by looking at him.”

“Hiding it from everyone for a while.”

“Yeah.  Who knows how long.  So.  Will and Marv expect him to pull out.  They plan to go to his office and talk to him, maybe go with them and air out everything at once, John.  Get it over with.”

 _Paul._  Sherlock’s breathing eases.  _Stupid, stupid!_

“We don’t mind.  Will and I.  And Marv.  That goes without saying.  We were sort of, well, surprised, I guess.  Just you never really mentioned that Sherlock was also your boyfriend.”

“Well, it’s -- uhm, recent,” John answers.  “But, yeah.” 

Sherlock enters the flat quickly through the kitchen and nearly runs into Will, who has just emerged from the toilet with wet hands held up awkwardly.   _As if he were trying to describe someone as ‘truly buxom’.  Habits of a surgeon._ “Will.” Sherlock nods.

“Sherlock, good afternoon,” Will replies, kindly.  He seems to have a question about something on the kitchen table but closes his mouth when John hears them and calls Sherlock over.

“Hey, you’re here, come,” John says, peering back at him from the living room, where he is seated with Sandra in the armchairs (she has Sherlock’s).  “We’re just talking about what’s happened with Paul and --”

“His pending divorce and cocaine habit,” Sherlock replies, noting that John’s ears are already bright pink.  John’s eyebrows shoot up -- _how...?_

“Exactly,” Sandra says.

Sherlock approaches John’s chair and smiles at Sandra with a flick of his fingers.  Her eyes widen. 

 _“Hello.  You always surprise me,”_ she signs back.  “ _Play a song for us?”_ She nods toward Sherlock’s music stand.

John has just noticed the sign language.  “Oh, come on, you two,” he groans.  Will snorts.

_“No.  Your husband wants to go.”_

_“Embarrassed both of us and sorry about the fight, silly situation, Paul’s problem about John and you together, divorce.”_

_“The last word, spell out please.”_

_“D - i - v -- “_

_“Okay.  Understand.”_ Sherlock nods and glances at John, who looks quite upset around the eyes, in spite of the smile on his face -- and pink ears.    _Not merely feeling left out,_ he thinks.

“So probably we’ll need to part ways with Paul soon,” Sandra says, breaking their silent exchange.  “We’re very sorry.  John, you’ll explain everything to him, won’t you?”  She stands and smiles at Will.

“So.  We’re on our way out,” Will says to Sherlock.  “We just popped by to give John a key.  Would you like to come out to Ascot, one of these weekends?  We might go riding?”

“We’ll plan on that, yeah,” John says.

 _We will?_   “Thank you,” Sherlock says, and forces himself to smile.  _For John._

John sees out his friends and comes up to find Sherlock staring out the living room window.  John joins him and slides a hand along the small of his back.  “Yeah.  Hey.”  They kiss.  John pulls away first.

“A misunderstanding,” Sherlock prods.

“Yeah.  Yeah, uhm.  They were all out at a pub and Marv got in a row with Paul.”

“Mmhmm.  Over...?”

“The fact that Paul doesn’t -- fancy -- going into practice with a ‘queer’ GP.  That would be me.”

“What else.”

“And, yeah, that you had a hand in Katie divorcing him, said -- some other shit, and Marv went off, and knocked him in the head with an empty beer mug.  Got them all thrown out.  Paul was high on coke.  And.  Will split them up and got punched in the shoulder, himself.  Paul!  Snorting coke.  Can’t believe it.”

“Mmhmm.” 

“So, yeah.  Katie talked to you about him recently?  You didn’t mention it.”

“Nothing worth mentioning.  I told her she needs a lawyer, not a detective.  I only advised her where to look for Paul’s cocaine supply.”

“The only good thing is that they’re keen to meet Linda.”

“Only.”

“No, I mean.  Right.” John folds his arms.  He is closing, inside and out.  “How about a cuppa, for you,” he asks tonelessly. “You look cold.  Oh, and we need to put on a soup, remember.   Want your help.”

“Okay.” 

John crosses the room to the kitchen and his sigh turns into a noisier hum as he goes.  “Where were you?”

“My brother’s club.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?  Those -- slides, or --”

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow they’re printing a story.  Photographs and a short text.”

“What -- story.  Oh.  Oh, come on.  Who.”

“The _Sun_.”

“ _Fuckers_ ,” John mutters and clicks on the kettle with a stab of his finger.  He takes in a breath through his nose.  “What are we doing in them.”

“They’re older photos, edited us closer together, one from your wedding.  And one of us in a cab, more recent.  Farcical texts and captions.  Not front page.  Short and mostly speculative.  Like they used to publish, really, around the time of Moriarty’s trial.”

“Ahmmm.  Where did you -- Mycroft told you?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s why you look so upset,” John says.

“No, I’m not concerned --”

“Sorts out the pillocks, love, you’ve seen.  What can I do.  Hide it and it makes things worse.”

“Not the point.”

“It is the point.  Actually.  It is.” John is pouring water carefully.  Fuming.  “They followed me like _vultures_ after you.  Jumped, yeah.  Asking all sorts of _shit_.  Especially the _Sun_.”

“Two spoons of honey in mine, please.”

Sherlock leaves John and goes to his bedroom.  Once all the honey has dissolved in the tea, John is about to take it in to Sherlock, who he imagines is in bed, pouting, in need of kisses.  But he is not; he comes out in house clothes and his russet red dressing gown.  The language of knots suggests that he is not at ease, though John is quite mistaken if he thinks a tabloid blurb or a gynecologist’s intolerance are to blame.  Sherlock takes his mug from John’s outstretched hand ( _strong, beautiful John_ ) and stands in front of his ongoing project at the end of the kitchen table. 

“I would like your help,” he says, all of a sudden.

“Okay, sure.  With what?”

 _Always yourself._   “Notation.  There are only a few sequences but I can’t be bothered to remember them all.”  Sherlock holds his mug just under his nose and sniffs at the steam.

“Now?”  

“Yes.  Thank you for the tea.”  _And the honey.  Beautiful John._

“You’re welcome.”  John looks at the clutter of tubes and retorts with a frown.  It seems to be taking away the appetite he’d had going several minutes before.   _The reason he lives off of air, right there_ , he thinks, glancing over at his pale friend, who seems to be staring at a regularity he’d just noticed in their wall tiles.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, snapping out of his digressive thoughts. “So.  There will be a delivery in just under an hour, after which we can have a very late lunch and put in some more work.”

“Food again?”

“Yes.  And we’re going to Vienna, Friday to Sunday.”

“Wh - at?”

“By plane.  Mycroft wouldn’t agree to a longer train trip.  Time-sensitive papers.”

“I was looking forward to.  Hmmm.  A long ride.”

Sherlock has followed John’s thoughts (more accurately, he had anticipated them), though he is not showing it.  “I would need at least eleven antiemetics to get through a trip of that distance, one way, and they tend to give me headaches and tremour.  Not a terribly romantic venture, after all,” Sherlock blurts.  He takes a quick sip of tea.

“I know.  Counting stuff.  Motion sickness.”

“Observant of you.” Sherlock looks at him, but the cynicism that John might expect is missing. 

“Sometimes I am, yeah,” John says, worrying the inside of his cheek with his tongue.  “Going by plane, then?  You hate --”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowns.  “And if you can’t manage on such short notice, that’s fine.”

“Now you don’t want me to go?” John asks.  “Just say so.”

“I want you to go,” Sherlock replies quickly.  “Nearly as colourful as Sheffield, now.  One of my favourite cities, in fact.  And I would like to introduce you to someone, while you’re there.  Is something wrong, John?”

John has been watching him carefully.  “Oh.  No, nah.  Just, you look tired.  Autumn rains.” John puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Bed?  Let me pet you, love.  Finish your tea now and we'll leave the work for later.”

Sherlock rubs his palms over his eyes.  “Mmm, okay.”

 _He agreed, just like that?_ John is starting to worry.

John and Sherlock curl up together under Sherlock’s blankets; John runs his hands through Sherlock’s hair until suddenly he notices that his friend has fallen asleep.  It is easy for John to close his eyes and nearly doze off, too.  He gets up at the sound of the doorbell and receives a small delivery of shopping that will keep them both fed for at least the upcoming days before their trip.  He chooses to make spaghetti with ground veal sauce.  And gives up on engaging Sherlock in soup-making, this time.

***

“Diethyl ether.  467, 466, 468, 467.  479.  Two point eight. ... Chloroform.  479, 481, 483.  Circle 479.  483.  Four point one.  Thank you.  Acetone.  471, 472, 471, 471.  480.  Five point one. ... Ethanol.  477.  Circle it, please.  479, 478.  Five point two.  Ethanol and water, fifty to fifty solution.  485, 486, 485, 481.  Circle the last.”

“Is that all?”

“No polarity index for the solution.  Mmm.  Yes, for now, yes.  The circled ones are probably errors.”

“What is it?”

“Part of a study on solubilisation of a natural orange dye used in oils and petrol.”

“What for?”

“The rent.”

 _Damn it.  Of course, love._   “Do you want me to help you --“ _financially, however you want, just tell me, God, I’m so sorry._  

“No.  It’s quite easy when I don’t have to remember all the sequences.  Thank you.”

***

_Clued in?_

_Boffin Sherlock Holmes (42) and Dr. John Watson (45), the super sleuth’s long-time pal and true crime blogger, as seen coming in from the cold, probably from the latest of their blood-chilling adventures.  Is that the reason they heated things up in a London cab?  And was it just what the doctor ordered?  The duo later went their separate ways, according to sources close to the crime-stopping friends._

_The winning pair always seem up for a bit of team play.  Dapper Watson with his Best Man, Sherlock Holmes (below).  Afghanistan war veteran Watson calling the shots with reporters.  Watson’s short-lived marriage to Mary Morstan (43) ended nearly three years ago._  


	52. Everything is locked

“ _Dark_. It’s too dark, Jim, _I can’t find her!”_  
  
Sherlock’s eyes snap open.  
  
“Too dark.” John is nearly rocking against Sherlock’s back, groping at the sheets they are sharing. “I’ve lost her, I can’t. _Please, God._ Please let me live. Let me see her. Let me live. _Need to see her._ Jim! _She’s not here!”_ John is moaning, through set teeth. Agony in his voice. He is soaked in sweat.  
  
“John.” Sherlock switches on the bedside lamp and closes his hands around John’s.  
  
John lashes out and kicks him, kneeing him sharply in the thigh. “Not here,” he is hissing. _“Gone!”_  
  
Sherlock shakes him more roughly. “Wake _up!”_  
  
When John opens his eyes with fuller awareness, they are strangely round and tearful at once. The rest of him is clenched and silent. “I can’t,” he mumbles. He sits up, whites wide in that terrifyingly plain, pleading expression. He swipes at his face with the inside of his closed fist. He looks down at Sherlock. “Why are you --” _\-- here?_   “Need to see something.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says. “Everything is locked. We’re alone.”  
  
“Hmmm. This.”  
  
“Lie down. It’s all right, John.”  
  
“Can’t.” John bats away a tear. “Tired of it.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“Lost Jim. We’ve lost Jim, Sherlock.” John drops back down onto the pillow and breathes, the air whistling through his nose, which is a bit congested and prickly inside, between the eyes.  
  
“Water?”  
  
“No.”  
  
"Mm --”  
  
“Listen --“ John seethes. “Jack me off. _Now_. Do it."  
  
                                                                                                                    ***  
  
John pulls his pajama legs up. He already regrets being forceful: a furtive, impersonal hand job in their own bed; his cock is chafed and aches. He stares up at the small circle of light on the dark ceiling, cast by Sherlock’s lamp. “I’m --” _sorry_.  
  
Sitting up and kicking the blankets away, he gets out of bed hastily; he goes out to the living room, where he breathes and hums to himself in the dark. His back is moist with sweat, and he shivers. _In the dark, midday, two and a half fucking litres down. Shut up. Enough. Enough. Alive, and here. And Jim’s gone, burned, and buried. Blew it. Fucked up. Didn’t go._ “Hmmm.”  
  
Sherlock scrubs at his hands in the bathroom and gazes into the mirror at his own mouth and eyes. _Out of character. Nearly silent. No -- not interesting. No._ He blocks the next thought; he blocks it again. He is still unsettled. _Nobody of importance._ It has set off a flux of sense memories, mostly faceless by now; he would like to erase at least the appearance of them on his own face before leaving the sink. They nauseate him.

 _Expressions. Factors. Of physiology._  
  
He finds John peering out at the rain on the street below; he turns to walk back toward the middle of the room and nearly knocks over Sherlock’s music stand. He swears and folds his arms as if to forbid himself further movement until he can regain trust in his own body. He opens his mouth to speak and then sighs, instead. Sherlock is standing very still, about four feet in front of him, with his hands clasped behind his back, a column of russet, blood-like in the selective light of the night at the window. It is disturbing, as is his mask-like expression. But he is merely waiting; John is able to perceive that much.  
  
“I’ll light a fire,” Sherlock finally says, and turns away to search around in the kitchen for his small butane torch, which he clicks on and off and then brings over to the fireplace. He glances at his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece, sets his mouth, and gets down on one knee; John drifts over to his armchair and watches his friend poke at the grate before discharging a flame over a few smallish sticks, papers, and a half-burnt log arranged inside.  
  
“It’s going,” John mumbles.  
  
Sherlock sets the torch on the floor, near his feet. “A longer one. This time.”  
  
“Thought they’d sort of go away. But they never really do.”  
  
“Would you like to explain it, now?”  
  
“Nah, not really.” John is flexing his fingers over the arms of his chair.  
  
“Then will you merely confirm?” Sherlock asks, steepling his fingers against his lips for a moment before folding his hands in his lap. John shrugs.  
  
Sherlock sucks in a breath. “When you got shot, you fell forward onto your knees, in rocky sand, under the full weight of your body and pack.”  
  
John nods.  
  
“It is the peritraumatic event underlying your initial difficulties with walking and later, your psychosomatic limp. It is also the reason your knees ache when you are stressed, though you may have aggravated a knee injury sustained in the Sixth Form. Age is also a potential factor.”  
  
John grits his teeth and nods. “In year eleven.”  
  
“You were holding a small photograph of your fiancée, Elizabeth Loganhill, in your left hand, which you used to monitor your waning state of awareness after you woke up alone and couldn’t stand or walk due to blood loss and shock. You began to experience longer lapses just after Jim found you. You had the impression it was nighttime, though you could perceive the sun shining overhead.”  
  
John has tilted his head a bit. Chin up. He nods.  
  
“You soon understood the extent of your blood loss. By then the photograph of Elizabeth Loganhill was soaked in blood and you couldn’t see the image. You needed to tighten your grip to hold Jim’s neck. You dropped the photograph on the way and when you noticed, you believed that you had already died and you were unable to accept that you couldn’t see her face in the afterlife.”  
  
This time, John closes his eyes for several seconds. But he nods.  
  
“After receiving a massive transfusion you had the misfortune of contracting a virus at the hospital, which gave you a high fever. You were in a dangerous state of delirium for nearly a week and your doctors didn’t expect you would survive, much less emerge with your cognitive abilities intact. You clung to life with admirable obstinacy, however. Because you believed you had someone to live for.”  
  
“Makes all the difference,” John says hoarsely. “Glad you’re mine, now.”  
  
_Very true. Beautiful man_. “Thank you.”  
  
“Hmmm. Anything else?”  
  
“Yes. John. After you were reunited with Elizabeth in London, you had frequent panic attacks and occasionally experienced difficulty speaking and walking. She soon left you for a barrister named Kevin Pogue, who specialises in real estate settlement negotiations.”  
  
“Yeah. How do you --“  
  
“Linda’s strong feelings about your broken engagement are understandable. You’d been involved briefly, while at Bart’s. You have remained good friends, however, perhaps because you never slept with her.” _He didn’t, I was right. Treats her like a sibling._ Sherlock is now speaking very quickly. “When you finished your training she gave you lapis lazuli cuff links, perhaps in reference to the dark blue colour of your eyes, which are flecked with gold and brown. Meaning, at the very least, that I am not the only one who’s made that association. You’ve since lost one of them but it’s probably still somewhere here and if we looked long enough, we might find it, perhaps upstairs, because you wore them on dates. But. By then, you’d already met Elizabeth, and you quickly introduced Linda to Jim. He was more forthright, and Michael, as she expressed it, came along. It was instrumental to your mending that you spent time with their family, particularly the child, who was born five weeks premature and needed medical attention and affection. To thrive. You really need to visit her, John.”  
  
“Okay. Hmmm.” John stares at him, as if scraped out from inside. “What else?”  
  
Sherlock looks back at him. _Who. No_. “What did you think of me, when we met, after that?”  
  
John’s tension seems to slack off slowly. “I thought you were a bit of an eccentric.” (A small smile.) “But I liked you. Wanted to know who you were. Spend time. Something exciting to think about, finally.”  
  
“Not so exciting,” Sherlock says, before he can stop himself.  
  
John bites his lips. “Where did that come from. Sherlock.”  
  
“Should I always wake you up?”  
  
“I don’t know.” John shakes his head. “So you knew all of that. You knew a lot.”  
  
“Not long. Many pieces fell into place quite recently. Once I knew who Jim was.”  
  
“Still hard to share, but that's about it.”  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, forcing himself to smile. “Going back to sleep?”  
  
“Maybe I’ll read. I don’t know. You?”  
  
“Later.”  
  
“Fire feels good, doesn’t it. Raining again.”  
  
They watch the flames in silence.  
  
_(“Du är hög?” *_  
  
_“Är det ett problem?”_  
  
_“Sherlock, jag tycker om dig.”_  
  
_“Mänskliga misstag. Du först.”)_  
  
The drift in their minds ebbs and broadens. They are both tired; they will soon come back to each other in their thoughts, and go to bed.  
  
John breaks their reverie, mid-thought. “Just wouldn’t get by.”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Need you to stay well.”  
  
“I think the same about you.”  
  
“For before. Dick got out of control, I'm sorry.” John exhales and rubs his forehead.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Look at us in our bloody pajamas, four in the morning.”  
  
_(“Varför tittar du inte på mig?”)_  
  
“You’re staring, a bit, love.”  
  
“You’re attractive.”  
  
“Ha.  Attractive.”  
  
“You should see yourself.”  
  
“Nah, I’ll pass.”  
  
“Really see.”  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Yes. Very.”  
  
___________________  
  
_* Swedish texts:_  
  
_“Are you high?”_  
  
_“Do you mind?”_  
  
_“Sherlock, I care for you.”_  
  
_“Human error. You first.”_  
  
_(“Why won’t you look at me?”)_


	53. When two become three

Sherlock and John are standing at the kitchen table over the latest phase of Sherlock’s research project.  John has the impression that Sherlock is at a stopping point; he has moved closer.  His friend is pushing a few glass dishes aside.  He closes a notebook that has been spread open at his side.

“Know what I was just thinking about?” John asks.

“Mmm?”

“In Bethnal Green.  On the fire escape.  When you were forcing the window and it was about to rain, like now.  Remember it?”

 _Angry and wanted a smoke.  Vile headache.  Four texts, vibrating, one after the other.  You:  cabled sweater from Scotland, dark jeans, the black coat, the green scarf you lost on the fence soonafter -- rotweilers shredded it while you swore and kicked the fence -- swore at me, too, for laughing -- your hair out of place over your temple, had been running, your knee was hurting you, you were eating eucalyptus pastilles, sore throat.  Smiled when the lock clicked.  A plastic sash stop --_ “Yes, vaguely.”   

“You got it open and we were listening, remember?  For a minute or two.”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to kiss your chin.  You were so close, I might have.”

“Why didn’t you.”

John leans forward and kisses his chin.  “Thought it would wreck everything.”

“Oh.”

“And I was right.  Kissing you could wreck _everything_.”

“What do you mean.”

“These retorts, for one, which are about to be _knocked off this bloody table,_ you gorgeous thing.”

 _Nobody flirts like John._   “Ah -- no.”

John growls, rubbing his lips against Sherlock’s throat while winding his arms around him.  “Don’t believe me --?”

“I believe I have a client coming in...six minutes.”

“Six minutes.  Not long.” John sighs, kissing him several times.  “Not long.  Want me to go, then?”

“Why would I.”

“You never --“

“Because you’re at work when I see them.  By appointment.  And I don’t see many of them.”

 _And it’s odd._   “And why is that?”

“Not engaging.  Nothing of interest, generally.”  Sherlock waves his fingers dismissively and turns away.

 _Whaaat?_ “I thought you like --“ John wanders toward the living room.

“No.  Clear off the living room table if you would, just pile everything there and put it aside.  Yes.”  Sherlock goes to scrub a bright orange tincture off of his fingers and John mulls over what he has just heard.  _Not engaging?  What?_

***

Jenny Mornaught is a mousey blonde with a sensible but outdated bob, is in her early thirties, and has a quietly modest appearance in dark stretch jeans and navy blue cashmere blend sweater with (synthetic, glass) pearls.  Sherlock has already deduced that she most likely choses her clothes and accessories by outfit, in accordance with what is displayed on mannequins in the windows at Marks and Spencer, and that she’d had older parents; _she is an office worker, most likely an assistant to an older woman who dominates her, much like her own mother.  Her purse is the newest thing she has, suggesting she is careful with her expenses, purchasing what she perceives as currently-fashionable accessories to brighten dull basic clothing of slightly better quality, perhaps because her recent move to London has proven to be a shock to her personal finances.  She is unattached --_

As she takes a seat in the chair that John has offered her, Sherlock watches John’s affable but mostly neutral response to her as he drops into his own armchair.  She seems to be waiting for one of them to speak, John sees.  Sherlock’s eyes are coursing over her quickly as she crosses her legs and grasps her knee with thin, laced fingers, the nails of which are lacquered in clear polish. 

 _Loner, close family ties instead of friendships.  Not with parents, however_.  “State your case,” Sherlock says finally.

“I only just moved to London two months ago.  I live in Shepherd’s Bush, off Goldhawk Road.  Well, I’m not sure my problem is even a problem, in fact.  I’m even starting to think it might just be a practical joke, but I don’t really have the kind of friends who would --” Jenny uncrosses her legs and sits with her hands awkwardly folded in her lap.  Sherlock’s eyes flick over her again.  “That is, I hardly have a social life outside of the workplace.  And I don’t keep ties with anyone at work, either, really.  I just want to give some kind of background, you see, I’m not from London, proper.” 

 _Of course you aren’t, your accent is chaos itself._ “No, you’re from Ipswich with received pronunciation from your years in a boarding school for girls,” Sherlock replies, as he exhales and looks at his own fingernails, where one cuticle is bleeding from being scrubbed too hastily.

“Yes.  Yes, that’s -- true.  But I merely wanted to explain that I am not a Londoner.”

“So we understand.  And the problem at hand _is_?” Sherlock asks.  John sees he is about to show more impatience.

Jenny begins.  “I was at a corner shop yesterday and a man approached me and just kissed my cheek.  He said, ‘Hey sweetie, how’re things after last night?’ and I told him off.  And I admit I felt sort of guilty being so rude, but I left very uncomfortable.  It’s not the first time.”

“Oh.  Has he been harrassing you?” John asks.

“No, I’d never seen him before.  But he’s not the first person who, well, let me start from the beginning.”

“If you would be so kind.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“A couple of weeks ago, a lady I passed on the pavement stopped me by the arm and said, “Oh, hey, you’re looking great!  Wow!”  I wasn’t feeling well, it was one of the rainier spells and I excused myself and walked away.  Maybe I’m over-sensitive?   But she was a complete stranger to me, and I thought maybe she’d forgotten her glasses or thought she’d seen a childhood friend in me.  Then a bloke at the chemist’s got friendly and asked me how I’d liked Leeds.  I’ve never had reason to go to Leeds, and I told him so.  He got offended and told me he’d gone to a lot of trouble to set up some or another arrangement for me, there, and stormed off.  Another time, I think it was last Wednesday, yes.  I’d just got my hair cut and a lady working at a shop said, ‘Oh, now that suits you so much better, luv.’  But with such familiarity.  And I’d never seen her before.  It was my first time in there, so how could she have known I’d just left a hair salon?”

“Hairs on your collar, in your ears or brows, obviously,” Sherlock replies.

John opens his mouth.  “She means hypothetically --“ _love.  Need to control that._

“Yes.  Jenny, do you have a twin sister?” Sherlock asks, sighing and digging his fingers into the armrests of his chair.

“Yes, I --”

“Would she happen to be a _fraternal_ twin?”

“No.  We are quite identical,” she replies.

“Mmhmm.  And where is your sister now?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she replies, to which Sherlock squeezes his teeth together.  “A missing twin.  Except I am not missing my twin.  She still lives in Ipswich.  We Skype nearly every day and she certainly isn’t trapsing around my corner of London.  Besides, she colours her hair dark auburn and wears tinted contact lenses now.”

“Because you were dressed alike and referred to as a unit until you were teenagers, and she maintains a more active social life.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up.  He shakes his head.

“Well, yes, I guess we --”

“How old was your mother when you were born?” Sherlock asks.

“Hm, 44.  No, 45.”

“Fertility therapy?”  John clears his throat.  _A logical question, what?_ thinks Sherlock, glancing at him with a shrug.

“I -- I don’t know.  I really don’t know.  Both our parents have passed away, I can’t exactly ask,” Jenny stutters.

“Were you adopted?”  Sherlock hears John sigh.

“No, I --“

“Have you ever suspected you might be?”

“Why --“

“You are both in London, and have found yourselves drawn to the same district.  Coincidence?  Not likely.  You may well be one of identical triplets, in fact.”

“But the incidence of identical triplets is --“ John starts to say.

“One in a half-million births, approximately.  But it is the most logical explanation of all of the facts, so far,” Sherlock tells him.

“No, I really can’t believe that,” Jenny protests.

“You’re choosing not to because it is easier.  But we would need more data before going much further.” 

Jenny seems to be catching up with Sherlock’s train of thought now.  She crosses her legs again.  “Mr. Holmes.  I cannot imagine that my parents would hide facts of such importance from Diana and me.  I don’t believe we were -- no.  Impossible.”

“It would hardly be original if they _had_ hidden facts of importance from you.  Let us assume you and your twin were adopted.  We would have to allow for the possibility, for instance, that your parents weren’t aware of the existence of a _third_ sibling.  If you and your twin _are_ the biological daughters of the woman who raised you, then she has hidden the existence of another sibling from you.  Or, your biological mother believed that the third sibling had died and never shared the fact of her loss with you.  It is also possible that your mother was lied to in hospital regarding the death of the third sibling.  That is extremely unlikely, however, outside the realm of daytime dramas -- after all, the mother might have asked to see the child’s body, out of sentiment.”  Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin.  “Mmm.  In my opinion, there _is_ a third sibling, who was adopted by someone else.”

John glares at him.  “You’re assuming an _awful_ lot,” he mutters.

“Just listening to you, I’m actually starting to believe I might have another sister,” Jenny says.  “Well, but that would imply so many other things at once.  I don’t know if I’m ready to move forward.”

“Maybe they just look a lot alike and it’s a complete stranger, with no shared genes at all?” John asks Sherlock, gesturing at her.

“She might not be an identical sister, just one very close in age, true.  Yet people are responding to other features like voice, gait, build, mannerisms, and aspects of personal appearance and style,” Sherlock replies, his eyes flicking over John’s face.  He turns and addresses the lady, “These incidents of mistaken identity seem to occur quite regularly, so the solution is simple, in fact I don’t understand why you haven’t done it already.  Wait for another person to stop you, and ask him or her directly for their help in contacting the other woman.  Meet her.  No doubt she is experiencing difficulties with her friends by now, and is beginning to infer that she has a twin.  Once you find her, learn what you can about the circumstances of her birth and her background.  If you wish, inform your twin in Ipswich, carry out DNA testing, and you’ll learn the truth about your parentage.”

“It’s really not ‘simple’ at all, sir, wherever the truth about one’s parentage is concerned!”

“It wasn’t my intention to offend you,” Sherlock replies.  (John could kiss him for that.)

“Fine.  Of course not.  Fine.  I’m really not sure I’d want to meet her, though.”

“Not so.  You’re very curious about her.  Now it is a matter of being noticed by the right people, so shop away, take regular walks, and wait.  Be in touch when you know more.  That will be all.”

“Okay.  Okay.  Oh, my.  Well.  Ah.  May I ask something unrelated?” she asks, to which Sherlock raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Are those French theatre glasses over there on the table, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“My grandmother had a similar pair on display in her window, but they were silver-rimmed.  Those have -- a lovely -- patina.”  She hums reflectively and stands from the chair.

“Everything all right?” John asks.

“Well.  I just had the most awful thought.  That perhaps she --“

“Which is why you will ask the next person who seems to take you for someone else to direct you to the other lady,” Sherlock breaks in. 

“Yes, I really should try to get to the bottom of this.  Thank you, Mr. Holmes.  Doctor Watson.”

“John, see her out, please.”

John walks down the stairs in front of Jenny Mornaught and helps her with her coat.

“If he’s right, well, I have a lot to think through,” she remarks.

“He’s rarely wrong.  But think of it this way.  You’ve been given an unusual opportunity to find out the truth, either way.  Chin up, Jenny, it’s always better to know.”

“Thank you, Doctor.  You’re right.”

***

“Wow.  Now _that_ was interesting.  But if you’re right about the extra sibling, her whole world will be turned upside down.” John walks over to the living room table.  He reaches over and starts re-stacking some of the papers there.  “Identical triplets?  Adopted out, or separated?  It seems so unlikely, though.  The stuff you read in the tabloids.”

“It’s a long shot, but what other explanation is there at this point?  At the very least, a relative,” Sherlock says, drumming his fingers against the arms of his chair.

“Yeah.  You were --“ _actually rather decent to her._

“I was what.”

“Uhm.  Probably right about the adoption bit.  But I feel sorry for her.  She probably feels betrayed.  What’s worse than being lied to by your own loved ones?  Nasty.  And this is a bloody _mess_ , here.”  John starts shuffling papers more actively.

“No, I can do that later,” Sherlock says, as he notices that John is about to upset the stack where he’d secreted away one of Alex’s books, _An Illustrated History of Homoeroticism in the Visual Arts_.

“You won’t.  Do you ever even look at these things?” John mumbles.

“Well --“

“Maybe go through it, now?  Hmm, these newspapers, for example.  All mixed up.”

“No, they can stay -- there.  Mmm.”

“What a -- oh -- _shit!”_   John hisses, as the near-geological layers on the table become a proper landslide; Sherlock rolls his eyes to himself and counts the seconds before John sees the book and says -- ( _what will he say?_ )  “This is.  What’s -- hmm.  What’s this.”

“It is...erotic art.  Have a look.”

“Nah, no.  Oh.  Now _that’s_ hot.” John flips through a few pages at random.

“John --”

“We could.  Try this.  Wow.”  John glances over at Sherlock, who is frowning.  “What.  Now who’s ‘straightlaced’?  Come on, let’s look at it.”

“Mmm, no.”

John flips through it and looks at the front leaf.  “So.  Ha.  This is -- Alex’s?  Is _this_ the sort of thing he gives you?”

“Low blood sugar,” Sherlock sighs.  “Irrational.”

“What do I have to be rational about here, tell me?”

“That I would ask an artist for a book about art, John.” Sherlock waves a hand and shakes his head affectedly.

John growls and puts the album down, but leaves it open to a page that he likes (Sherlock winces).  “We’re making a soup.” John stomps off toward the kitchen and starts taking out vegetables; he sizes up a chunk of veal. “Need you in here, at the table,” he says. 

This time, Sherlock sees, his retorts are in far less danger of upset.  “All of these, peeled and diced,” John adds, plunking down a cutting board with five large carrots on it.

“I’ll have another text for you to read through, later,” Sherlock says, in part to divert him.

“Oh?  What is it about?”

“Unlawful burial.”

“The corpse in Sheffield?” 

“No.  I’ve given it the working title of ‘Unlawful Burials of Family Members on Private Property:  Case Studies of Exhumations in Rural Areas’.  Might need to be changed to ‘A Survey of Motives in Unlawful Burials, et cetera.”

“Hmm.  No problem.  We can read through it after we eat.  Carrots.”  

John watches Sherlock’s approach rather intently ( _why?_ ) and hands him a knife.

“Mhm.”

“Thank you.” John is slowly getting past his outburst about the art book.  “You know, I have a lot of older case notes I’ve never written up.  Want to go through them sometime, refresh your memory?” John asks, as he turns away and peels a parsnip over the sink.

“Of course.”

“They’re somewhere at my flat.  I’ll look for them.  Not complete, but.”

“Mmm.”  Sherlock is now dicing carrots with furious concentration.  Or so it appears.  “How much longer do you plan on upholding the fiction of living in that flat?” he asks unexpectedly.  [ _Chop chop chop chop..._ ]

“Needing some space isn’t fiction.  What.  You need plenty of space, too,” John remarks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock answers, with an expression that suits the knife in his hand all too well.  “If I’d wanted _space_ , why on earth would I have conceded to having a relationship with you?”

“Conceded.  Interesting choice of word.” John takes a long breath through his nose.

“It’s accurate.” Sherlock returns to the carrots.  “It was a choice.  It’s always a choice.  Of all people, you _might_ understand the implications of it.”  [ _Chop, chop, lengthwise slice, chop chop chop..._ ]

“As if I don’t.  I think I’ve seen some things.”

[ _Chop!_ ] “Where you are concerned, I don’t want any _space_.  Why would I.”  Sherlock sets the knife aside.  “Tell me the truth, John.  Is living with me too problematic for you for social reasons?”

“What?  Why are you asking --”

“Your sleep was seriously disturbed last night for the first time in weeks, this after discovering that your colleague Paul is unwilling to work with you, in part because of our relationship, as well as the publication of that article in the _Sun_ which followed.”

“Nah.”

“Answer my question.”

“No, it is not _too_ problematic, socially speaking.  Which is not to say that it's easy.”

“Regarding housekeeping, I told you how it can be arranged.”Sherlock hands a cutting board covered with cubed carrots to John, who takes it and carefully scrapes them off into a pot.

“Here.  Just two more.  Sherlock.  I don’t know what to say.  I’m on call and I was about to ask you over,” John tells him, giving the board back.  “What do I say right now.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock has started in on the next lot of carrots less energetically.

“Okay, it’s tedious for you, I know you don’t like it there.”

“I like your bed.”

“Look.  I don’t want to quarrel with you, love.”

“Okay.”

“I need to sleep there tonight, but the truth is, I can’t sleep properly without you.”

“Okay.”

“So will you come?”

“Yes.”

“Are you, uhm.”

“Yes.”

“Because I --“

“Yes.”


	54. An excellent performance

When Sherlock hears the lock open with a small, tinny _snick_ , he tugs out his jimmie and quietly enters the flat.  The first thing he sees is his dearest person in the world, seated in a wobbly wooden chair, cleaning his gun with a soft cloth.  Three cartridges have been removed and set aside.   _Cleared of my own fingerprints_ , Sherlock thinks, as he glances up at the iridescent chandelier -- lit tonight, in a heinous conflagration of sparkles that seem to bound off each other with near-audible intensity (perhaps that is why neither man speaks?).  John has several tiny, round rainbow halos in his hair, mostly green to violet, which provide a peculiar contrast to his angular, stooped posture and the weapon in his grip.  A few seconds more and Sherlock cannot hold off.  He takes John by the arm; John quickly sets the gun on his table and stands to put his arm around him, and sees that his hair is damp from the rain, and his skull has been marked in halves by an errant rainbow.  Another colourful band stretches over one of his cheekbones briefly, before he moves closer to take John’s jaw in his hand and work his tongue warmly into his mouth.  The sound in John’s throat means _pliancy_.  Sherlock can feel that he has been waiting and imagining.  And John doesn’t care at all that his shirt is now soaked in places from Sherlock’s clothes.  They kiss as Sherlock sheds his shoes and coat; his trousers are wet at the ankles and John takes them off for him.  Arguably, his pants are unnecessary, but stay.  For now.  Tented.  John wants to open the shirt, kiss him, and take him to his bed to hold him and warm him, very close (it’s always more fun when there’s a bit of clothing left to get in the way, to be got past, later on).  But before he can, Sherlock turns him around and kisses his nape.  John’s eyes go heavy and he smiles as he feels Sherlock’s fingers working open all of his shirt buttons from behind, much as he had at the window, in Sheffield.  Now, however, John is not gazing at autumn leaves, but at one of his mirrored wardrobe doors.  He watches his jeans being opened and Sherlock’s long fingers reaching in for his cock, to pull at it gently;  his other hand is running over John's chest.  At the sight of all that John’s knees ache.  His jeans are coming down.  He doesn’t mind.  He kicks them off when he can.  Sherlock’s wild head is rubbing his shoulder (devil, or angel?) looking as though the kisses he is pressing against John’s neck are incomplete whispers about -- something _delightfully_ wicked to come.   _Devil._   “Hi, soldier,” Sherlock finally says, in his ear.  And turns him back around by the shoulders.  He has been in the room for less than two minutes, but he hears almost exactly what he wants to:

“Hey, beautiful.  You’re.  Killing me.”

“No.”

“Come to bed, love, warm you up.”

“Mmm, John.”

“Glad you’re here.”

“Are you?”

“Can’t tell?”

“Never can.”

John steps over to the wall by the door and switches off the blaze of light overhead.  They crawl into bed in what now seems like pitch darkness, and hold each other beneath the blankets.  John puts his arm around Sherlock’s back and rubs his spine with his palm.  

“So what were you doing all evening?  While I was here, thinking of you?” John asks. 

“I sent it,” Sherlock says.  _Burials.  Loved ones.  Selfishness and a desire to keep someone to one’s self.  A secret.  I didn’t mention that -- as a motive --_

“The article?  Did you?  To...Australia?”

“Yes.”  Sherlock smiles.  “And I worked out the error in the ethanol measurement, you know.”

“Good for you, love.  Good.” John’s fingers are circling gently over Sherlock’s lower back, to his arse; he pulls down the pants.  “Remember, hmm.  Those binoculars.  Of yours.  On the table, you know?”

“Mmhmm.  _Jumelles Mars_ theatre glasses, or _skeleton_ binoculars --”

“Got me thinking.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  And I have a new story for you.”

Sherlock shivers a bit.  “Voyeurism.”

“No...the opposite.  Are you cold?”

“Better, now.”

“So, should it be with some voyeurism?  I can tweak it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“All right.” John shifts so he is resting on his side, on one elbow.  His fingers are wandering over Sherlock’s arm and chest.  He will soon finish with the shirt and pull it off.  “Want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  You and I are at a theatre.  A concert hall.”

“Mmmm.”

“Impressive inside, painted ceiling, gilded lights, baroque, with rows and rows of red velvet seats, filled with elegant concert goers.  Sold out, because there will be an excellent performance.”

“What’s playing?” Sherlock asks.

“What?” John has got Sherlock’s shirt off.  He drops it and puts a thumb over Sherlock’s right nipple.

“The concert that we’re going to.  In the story, what’s playing?”

“Details, details.  Uhm.  It can be... _Tristan and Isolde.”_

“Oh, divine.  How did you know?” (John shrugs.  He’d seen an attractive poster for it recently at a street corner.) “Mmm.  You can stop your story there and I’ll just listen for the chromaticism.”  Sherlock closes his eyes.

“What?” John stares at him in the poor light.

“I was joking,” Sherlock answers.

“Uhm.  Right.  A concert hall, packed with people.  Somewhere in Europe.  That’s the setting.” 

“Okay.”  Sherlock’s skin is prickling under John’s roving fingers, which have reached his waist.

“But this is a story where the real performance will be for one.  Or two, if all goes well.”

“Oh.”

“We’re sitting up in the highest gallery, in box seats.  You start off by complaining that it’s going to be hard to see anything and that I’ve chosen our tickets _very poorly_.”

“And they do have a poor view.  Though you can see the choreography well and observe what goes on in one of the wings.  It’s usually far more interesting than anything on stage.”

“Probably.  Okay.  The lights go down, and you have those bizarre old hand-held binoculars of yours in your hand.  Are you going to listen or not?” John asks, closing a hand over Sherlock’s hip.

“I am.”

“Right.  So I’m listening.  To the music.  Now, you’re watching the singers and the musicians with those glasses.  And as the performance gets underway I notice that you seem to fancy the first chair violinist, a bit.  I reach down and squeeze your thigh.  Just so you’ll remember you’re mine.  Nobody can see, and you let me do it, although it hurts.  You’re even smiling, like now.  You think it’s funny to make me jealous.  It isn’t, love.  Not funny at all.  But you’re not trying to make me angry, you’re just wound up because you know a touch on the leg won’t be enough.  For either of us.  You feel me move my fingertips up the inside of your thigh, like I am now, so you move, as you sometimes do, and conveniently uncross your leg so I can feel how much you want it.”

“I don’t do that.”  Sherlock draws John closer to him.

“Yes, you do.  And.  You’re looking good.  I can’t take my hand off you.  And, as I said, I won’t stop at a grope or two in the dark, love.  I’m making you nervous, a bit.  You’re really good at controlling yourself and you’re counting on that.  And I’m touching you, just to feel how hard you’ve already got.  You want it.  I look around and I can see that the opera boxes on the other side of the theatre are pitch-dark, like the inside of a wolf -- just to compare how dark it is.  Very dark.  Can’t see a _thing_.  You’re leaning over, with your chest against the railing, peering down with your glasses, and who would ever notice that I’d disappeared, from my seat?  Only you would ever notice something like that, in a crowd.  Now you’re about to deduce why I’ve brought you here in the first place, since Wagner’s got such bloody long operas and you know I don’t like bloody long operas.  And the reason is... because...Wagner’s got such _bloody long operas_.” (Sherlock snorts and laughs.) “And you’re about to forgive me for the ostensibly _poor_ location of our seats.  I get on my knees and I unzip you in the dark, and you let me put my hand in a bit, and then I take you out, and kiss you quietly, with my lips just on the tip of your cock, you gorgeous thing.  You don’t object, just watch the stage and the orchestra, but then I’d just go down hard on you and _suck you_.  Deep, and fast, right there, and you’d almost drop those silly glasses on some old spectators way down on the floor.  Poor love.  How would you ever run down to get them back, when you’re in my mouth, getting worked over hard like that?  They’d hold them up to you,  ‘Sir!’  And you’d wave and say, ‘Not at all, no, they’re for you.’  So you hold your glasses tightly, sit stoically with your other hand gripping the railing tight, while you come down my throat.  Born for public sex, you were.”  Sherlock’s eyes widen.  John smiles and continues:  “But.  You know I can’t be left like that.  I’m about to lose it.  What.  Surprised?  You know what I want, I want to be inside of you.  Now.  So you’ll either have to take me somewhere quiet and miss half of the performance, or get on the floor with me, right there.  You see how bad I’ve got it for you and you let me pull down your trousers and I open you with my tongue, like in that painting in that art book.  Yes, you heard me.  You know which one.  And I’d take you on your knees next to our chairs.  Wouldn’t make too much noise, so noone would ever have to know that I’m down there shagging your gorgeous arse, licking your neck just the way you like, and exploding inside of you.  Good the music is loud.”  John kisses him once, on his cheek.  “Hmmm.  But seriously.  What else can you do in a dark box, alone with someone you love so much, who happens to be so _insanely_ hot?”

“Referring to yourself, of course.”

“Of course I am.  You liked that story.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Take me to a long opera sometime, and we’ll see...if it’s just a story.”

Sherlock starts laughing into his palms until he has a fit of coughing. 

_Madman, I love you, I love you, I love you --_

“Would you like to try that?  With my tongue?”

“Another time.” Sherlock wipes his eyes and smiles.

“And this time?” John asks.  “What should I...hmmm.” His hand is teasing over Sherlock’s cock under the blankets.

Sherlock has one of his legs wrapped over John’s and now he moves it away.  “Turn over,” he says.  John lets his friend  curl up behind his back and hold him.  He feels Sherlock rubbing his nose over his neck as he runs his fingers over his chest again.  “John, I wonder if you liked watching me make love to you in Sheffield.”

“Oh, yeah, you know I did.”  _Oh God, your voice._

 “Now.  If you could watch it, would you let me have you, as we are?”

 _Devil_.  “Oh....”

“As much as you could take of me.”

“Oh.  Yeah.” _Keep talking, beautiful --_ “Yeah.”

“Your lamp.  Mmm, yes.  And your magic bottle.”  Sherlock has his cock pressed up against John’s back.  “Now relax.”

“Am relaxed.  Oh, love make it feel good.” John hums as Sherlock leans down and licks around his ear.  His finger is close.  He pushes it in a little and smiles as John arches his back to take it slightly further; he is looking for that shock to his nerves. 

“Wardrobe,” Sherlock says.

“Oh... _yeah_.”

“But not yet.  I’ve hardly begun.  No.”  The page John had left open on ( _their_ ) living room table had provided the inspiration for the evening, at least in Sherlock’s mind.  He plans to drive John mad, though having such a warm, wirey back pressed against his chest and the scent of that neck near his nose and lips for the taking is very distracting; he hopes he will last.

“Hmm -- oh, ah!”  John is gritting his teeth and grinning at once; he turns his head for Sherlock’s kisses and groans.  “More,” he breathes.  “Go on.”  He mumbles and sighs against every touch.  He is so responsive that Sherlock fleetingly envies him, a thought that is quickly replaced by the pleasure of hearing John ask for him.  “Do it, love” he says, “want to have it.  Aahh, this --“ he winces, as the wet head of Sherlock’s cock prods into him, opening him in small thrusts until he can take half of it at once. 

“Show me,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear.  “Where.”

“Haa,” John grunts and pushes back against him, choking, “Thaaat.  Hmmm, God.”  He has grasped his cock.  “So good, God, _intense_ \-- ah hmmmm --”

Sherlock pushes John’s hand aside and closes his fingers around his shaft.  John’s body shakes between the jolts of pleasure front and behind; he can hardly make a coherent sound, and his groaning and breathing are the only expression of what he feels until all at once they begin to take a sharper edge -- a hiss, a word -- “ _Sher -- ahh_.”  He curls and rocks back against Sherlock’s cock.  He is in mindless bliss. 

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, slowing and deepening his strokes.

“Hmmm, ahh,” John groans.

“Look.”

“That.  Ahhh.”  John cannot answer him, and stares over at his reflected self, as he is being thoroughly fucked and stroked; he listens to Sherlock sighing and breathing against his neck.  _Oh fuck, so hot_ , _fuck me_ \-- _fucking me, gorgeous, fuck_ \-- and the only thing he can say is, “ _More._ ”  He reaches back and grasps at Sherlock’s arse, growling as he feels the most unbelievable hum of pulse and pressure growing and spreading up his abdomen; his balls tighten as he squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip, groans and comes in Sherlock’s hand with a fierce sound in his throat; suddenly even the smallest thrust inside of him has started to burn and ache.  “Can’t,” he says, through his teeth.  “Oh fuck.  Can’t.”  Sherlock has slowly pulled out, and John turns over to kiss him and finish him off -- but he is already nearly done, as he says, shuddering, his lips against John’s damp shoulder as he comes in his hand.  John is weak all over, though his eyes are wild and euphoric.  “That,” he says.  “Didn’t know I could.”  He reaches down for a bit of clothing ( _poor shirts_ ) and gives it to Sherlock.  “You are _incredible._ All of this.  You’re, hmmm, love you.  I love you so much, you’ve no idea at all.  How.”  He crawls on top of Sherlock and puts an arm around his head.  They kiss. “Do you know?  Hmmm.”

“Beautiful man.”  Sherlock bites his tongue reflexively.  He’d never let that slip before.  _But why not, in fact.  Why not._  John’s entire face has filled with an eager, happy expression, and now he has started kissing Sherlock’s cheeks and petting him.  _So pleased.  To be loved (by me).  Lost the faculty of speech along the way, brilliant that he can enjoy  --_ “John, you’ll let me go, please,” Sherlock tells him, and tries to sit up.  “And I’d like to borrow your bathrobe.”

“Of course, love,” John says, and jumps up to get it from his wardrobe; he stares as Sherlock pulls it on ( _gorgeous, mine_ ).  “Ah.  Take my soap with you, in the plastic shower kit in the kitchen, you know.  And a towel --”

Sherlock slips out to the bathroom, the hall light flashing rudely over his long, quick form. 

John checks his watch.  His availability for the hospital starts in just over half an hour.  He crashes back onto his pillow.  His bed is a wreck and he can’t be bothered to do anything about it.  He’ll need a wash.  Soon.  _Ouch.  Worth it._ A bath would be even better.  _Ow._ He indulges in a bit of fantasising about Vienna and hums to himself.  _So hot -- seriously.  Oh, my God.  That._ He starts giggling to himself.  _Taking him to the opera, someday.  Have to.  Hmmm.  I love him.  Love him.  Do they have box seats in Vienna?  I love him -- to madness._   


	55. Not too soon

_Thinking of you all day. How are things?_

_Tooley Street, knifing. An amateur. You? SH_

_Swollen glands, grotty fillings, etc. Not mine!! Where are you?_

_Bart’s morgue. SH_

_Bring you Thai tonight?_

_No. Bring yourself. SH_

_Can do. See you at 7:30 or 8. Bringing baggage._

Sherlock flicks his pencil in his fingers and glares down at the page in his lap; his eyes course over the curve of the pale, bruised forehead that is rested against a rumpled sheet in front of him. He is about to erase half of the skull and start over when Molly pops her own head in through the door. “Need to roll him away now, okay?” she says. “My shift is over.”

He uncrosses his ankles and stands. “Mmm.” He stuffs the pencil and notebook into his coat pocket.

“Could you get that light for me? Thanks. So, haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, as they walk nearly side by side down a florescent-lit corridor. “How are things?”

Rain hammers at the windows. _Four antiemetics on tomorrow’s flight --_ “As they should be, thank you.”

“Why are you drawing all these bodies?” she blurts.

 _Vessels, still fascinating, not visibly breaking down, very still -- no interaction._ “An exercise. I would use fruit, but John eats it all.”

“It’s true, what they say?” Her eyebrow has arched slightly.

“Depends primarily on what _they_ say,” Sherlock replies.

“That you’re. Well, that you’re -- “ she gestures loosely, as if half-heartedly grasping for a word that is standing out of her reach.

He states it for her. “Involved, with John.”

It doesn’t curb her stammering, however. “Yeah.   Are you, uhm, r-really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

“Oh, okay. Wow, I guess I should have seen that. Should I have?”

“Molly.” _Finish quickly --_

“No, I mean, I really didn’t -- okay, nothing.”

“And you?” Sherlock asks her, as she springs forward and bumps his arm reaching for the door. _Wanting to escape_ \--

She has pulled a small folding umbrella from her floppy handbag. “Me? What about me?”

“How are you.”

“I -- everything’s fine, good.”

“No.”

“Long story, not worth telling. I need to get going. Oh, congratulations.”

“On?”

“Everything. Just, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, well, so. See you around.” Molly rushes off, clearly disconcerted, her umbrella already streaming with rain at all the edges.

***

John arrives at Baker Street at half-past eight; he is soaked through at the collar and shoulders. When he sees John, Sherlock wishes he were naturally warmer (here, he misjudges himself; the sight of him warms John all over, particularly in the chest). He catches John’s wrist and they kiss until John is smiling against his lips. In a moment John has noticed that there is a small fire going; there is also an attractive smell in the kitchen. “Dinner for us?” he asks.

“Yes.”

John wanders to the bathroom to wash his hands and comes out still slightly red-nosed from the cold, driving rain. He rubs his hands together; Sherlock gazes at them _\-- an atavistic gesture -- hungry, cold, expectant --_ “Starving. I’d eat anything, about now. Straight to King’s Cross after work.”

“What for?” Sherlock turns away and uncovers a foiled pan that is sitting on the counter, singing his fingertips in the process, which annoys him immensely; he is unfocused.

“Show you later. So, what am I --” John is trying to look over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hmm. This?” He has just received a full plate and a fork. He sits down at the kitchen table and pushes some papers aside; he stares down with what to the casual viewer would appear to be caution. He is, in fact, very impressed. _Not restaurant food -- no way --_ “What is this?” he asks, picking through it with the fork.

“As yet unnamed,” Sherlock says, looking at John curiously. _King’s Cross?_  “There are four more portions, which I’ll either freeze or use to nourish pigeons by the bins. You’ll decide.”

“You _made_ this.”

“Well.”

“Kind of a stew? Casserole? So. Sliced potatoes, pre-boiled, I guess, cream with tomato sauce, layers of mushrooms and sausage, cheese. Baked properly. Some kind of green -- something. Hmm.”

“Chervil.”

“Okay. Not eating with me?”

“Ate earlier.” _Liar._

“Hmm. Hey. This is _very_ good. Where did you get the idea for this?”

“Internet,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Come sit with me, at least,” John says, as he watches his friend return to the living room table.

“Reading, now.”

“What are you working on?”

“Research. Vienna.” Sherlock sighs and drops into a chair.

“Help you?”

“No.”

“Thinking about the flight?” John asks.

“No.” _Liar._

“Early start tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

“So -- meetings? What are they about, anyway?”

“Housing regulations.” _Hardly._

“Oh. Right.”

“Mmm.”

“Bloody -- boring?”

“Yes.” _No._

“This is delicious, love. Mmmm. Seriously.”

When John is finished eating he drops his plate into the sink to soak and makes tea for them both; he dunks a spoon into one of the mugs and takes them both to where Sherlock is hunched over his computer. “Well done. Thank you.” (A warm kiss to the side of the throat; another to the left cheekbone.) “Very much. Brought something for you,” he adds, as Sherlock puts out a long hand for the mug and removes the spoon from it with a frown.

“Oh?”

“It’s downstairs.”

John runs to fetch his present and Sherlock exhales and rubs his temples where he is starting to get a headache. In a moment, John is back; he merrily unrolls the newspaper he has in his hand and plunks a full quart jar of light amber honey on the living room table next to his friend’s mug. “Out of pine honeydew for the season. This is the heather-based one. Alison sends her regards, by the way.”

“John, thank you. Brilliant.”

“This one is far more...easily _poured_ \--”

“Distracting tonight. Hardly fair.” Sherlock is smiling down at the jar as John opens it and puts two large spoons of honey into his tea, making sure to get some on his own fingers as he goes.

“Fair? Who’s making rules?” John asks, smudging a bit of honey on Sherlock’s lip and licking his own thumb with a smirk. “Go on. Read. I have an important newspaper to get through over here.” He takes his mug and retreats to his chair.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and smiles; he finally brings his computer to his armchair, to sit across from John, who looks at him with all the subtlety of the Cheshire cat over the top of his newspaper as the fire licks the log in the fireplace and radiates dry warmth over their outstretched feet. Sherlock tries to read with concentration and calm, neither of which he seems able to muster. Later, when he gives in and closes his laptop, John lowers his newspaper for a moment; he doesn’t stop reading, however, until Sherlock is climbing over his knees for a kiss. “Oh, hey. Knock us over in a second,” he says, against Sherlock’s neck, as he drops his paper aside.

“Oh, so the honey wasn’t --” Sherlock goes to stand up again.

John’s eyes have flashed a greedy _yes, it was_. And he grabs the jar from the table and leads his friend by the hand to bed.

***

John has covered Sherlock’s face and neck in kisses. He has undressed for him. “Let’s get these clothes off,” he murmurs, lapping and nibbling at Sherlock’s jawline as he starts pulling open the buttons of his shirt just below him. “Want you tonight,” he whispers. “Can’t stop.”

“Why should you.” Sherlock pulls off his shirt and drops it next to them.

“Love to kiss you.” John’s lips are pressed, wet, over Sherlock’s -- but not for long; his tongue courses over his chin. “Take off the rest of these. Hmmm.” His cock is quavering and warm between them as they sink against the pillow and kiss, John on top; his breath is heavy and matches the force of his hands.

“Mmm _._ Okay -- _”_ Sherlock is dissolving under the humid wetness of John’s kisses. His own hands seem to have been slowed -- his fingers are hardly his to control as he tries to pull off his own trousers. _Undressing -- too tedious and too urgent all at once --_

John pulls them off for him and grins. “Blame me for wanting you all the time when you’re so sexy --” He bends down; his lips trail over Sherlock’s neck. He reaches down for Sherlock’s cock and rubs it against his own.

“Mmm -- I love --” _you unnaturally much. Madness._ John has silenced Sherlock with kisses and runs his hand over Sherlock’s heart.

“Going to lose my head, look at you.” John growls, as he stops just long enough to breathe.

_Speak of yourself now. Only yourself -- John --_

“So, where is that jar. There. Love. Hmmm. Sticky? Not for long.” (Sherlock’s last breath has hitched.) “On your knees. Yes, you heard me, love. Let go.” John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s thighs from behind. He reaches round to stroke that long, thin, wet cock that had driven him so mad as he’d watched in his wardrobe mirror.

 _The painting. Alex’s book. Oh --_ Sherlock is hardly breathing. “Don’t -- have -- to --” _Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t want this. Vulgar -- most elicit imaginable -- kisses -- vulgar --_ “Ahh --mmm--“

“More?” John asks, between licks. “Hmmm...” He won’t hear a coherent reply until he stops to cover and slick himself up and asks, “Not all the way,” he says quietly. ("Okay," he hears.) “Want to feel you, tell me when.” He thrusts his fingers into Sherlock as carefully as he can, his cock throbbing faster than he would dare push into him now. He asks again and Sherlock nods. It is too much from the start -- _tight, fantastic._ The friction and heat seem to pull him deeper and he tries to hold back, stay slow, keep it shallow and gentle. Even then the pressure and heat spread, tense, through him; he sinks forward one last time, and loses the fight -- loudly -- as he comes and growls -- _couldn’t stop. Couldn’t anymore. So good, oh God. Tight. So good_. And Sherlock -- closes down. He is angry, in secret, at himself; the part of his brain that had gone defensive at the harsh twinge and ache also wants to count and regain control; he has gone gray in the face. Teeth set, eyes and throat shut, hands filled with the sheets beneath him, he feels as though everything has contracted again. Even his heart hurts -- _thirty-three (gentle, perhaps incomplete, restrained) movements_ _\-- why -- does it --_ _nngh --_

John snaps off his condom and slides down next to Sherlock. He turns him over by the arm and holds him close to his chest. “Far too soon. Too soon. Argh. Are you okay, my love?”

 _Not okay. Not too soon._ Sherlock nods.

“Easier? Let me hold you, beautiful. Hmmm, I love you so much. So _much.”_ John strokes Sherlock’s cheek. “Why is my phoenix so pale. I’ve hurt you. Again.”

“John.”

“Why don’t you stop me.”

Sherlock puts his nose against John’s neck and kisses him.

They lay together and John pets Sherlock’s mad hair. “Hmm,” he says, after some time. “Hear that? Pouring like crazy out there. Sherlock. You felt so amazing. Are you all right?”

Sherlock nods again. His eyes flick up to the window; the rain is blowing in sheets against the glass. _Will vomit like a cat. Will take five of them. Reduced alertness. Gut in a wreck. Nngh. Should tell him -- the meetings -- explain it --_

(Sherlock suddenly realises that John has been sharing a brief, naughty story involving their flight.) “Bloody arrest us for all I’d care. Want me to give you...”

“Later.” _Nnngh. How can anyone stand this -- they do, though -- how do they --_

“Anything you like.”

“Run me a bath.”

“Okay.  And after your bath...”  John scoots off the bed and stretches his back.

“Mmm.” Sherlock hums, mostly at what he is seeing in front of him.  “Join me, John,” he says, suddenly.

"Sure?  Okay, why not."  And John goes to the bathroom to turn on the taps.

***

John is washing and rubbing Sherlock’s back gently in circles with a washcloth, leaning forward to kiss and lick his neck and shoulders. “But. The point is to see it with you, love."

Sherlock sniffs.  “If I'm called away, you’ll carry on without me.  And enjoy the city.”   _Nngh.  Forgive me._

"Hmmm.  Okay.  Won't be easy."

“We’ll be out of touch.  My phone will be blocked during the meetings for security reasons.”  

“Will we have some time --“

“Of course.” _Liar._

“Housing.  Low-risk, I take it.  Ha.  Mycroft has some bloody weird ideas for you.”

 _Beautiful John._  Sherlock squeezes his teeth together. He follows the loose, slow circles John is sketching over his back and closes his eyes.  

_Forgive me._


	56. Random and we've no control

Sherlock and John arrive in Vienna mid-morning. 

Sherlock, who had been dazed and quiet during the flight, has since sprung very much to life.  Now is he explaining rather off-handedly that the stunning park that is visible from their hotel is part of a palace complex called Schönbrunn, a Hapsburg residence closely modeled on Versailles. 

"Versailles?"  John says.  "I have to see that."

“And you will, very soon,” Sherlock replies, energetically unzipping the suitcase bag he has just dropped unceremoniously on their bed, while texting madly in his free hand.  “In fact, in a few minutes.  And I am meeting Alex in -- thirty-five.”

“What?”

“Yes." John sees that Sherlock has just pulled a small blue volume out of his suitcase, which he recognises as Alex's bizarre flip-book.  "Take the underground and join us for a late lunch.”

“But, hey.  So, where are you going to -- “

“I’ve just texted you the address.  My phone may be deactivated by then, in which case you should contact Alex.”

“Sherlock!”

“Seventeen degrees Celsius.  No rain.”

“Yeah.  Why are you so bloody flighty?”

“I’m not _flighty.”_

“Then stop.  Stop for a couple of minutes.”

“Mmhmm.”

John threads an arm around Sherlock, whose eyes seem contracted and absent from the high dose of antihistamines he'd taken in the morning to block nausea -- and distract himself.  “Looking forward to this for weeks.  Come here, beautiful.”  He kisses Sherlock’s throat. 

“Mmm, John.”  Sherlock takes John by the nape and kisses him.  His mouth and throat feel dry and bitter from pills.  In a moment he pulls away and coughs into his hand, shaking his head.  “We need to go,” he says, hastily.    

John sighs.  “Don’t want to go _anywhere.”_

Sherlock puts out a hand and pets John’s hair into place.  “Come, John.  Someone is waiting for you at the gates of Schönbrunn.”

***

_“Rainer, zeig ihm deine Waffensammlung.”*_

_“Natürlich, gern.”_

Sherlock is talking to a trim man of around fifty in a green woolen Alpine shooting jacket and black jeans, whose small, bushy moustache and goatee make him look like a pre-war author from an oil portrait.  He has just removed the rimless glasses which had suggested the association to John in the first place; he is polishing them thoughtfully with a cloth handkerchief.

_“Er war bei Militär.  Nimm ihm mit zum Schießen, er schießt ganz hervorragend.  Vielleicht morgen.”_

“ _Ach so.  Na klar,”_  Rainer replies, and looks at John with a brief, reserved smile. 

John sees he is being appraised.  Rainer is an acquaintance from a forensics conference with whom -- John has just discovered -- Sherlock corresponds frequently on ballistic fingerprinting, gunpowder dispersion, cartridge grooving, and the like.  He is a fanatical collector of antique firearms and after taking John for a quick tour of the palatial gardens of Schönbrunn, he plans to show off his private arsenal while Sherlock goes for coffee with Alex at a nearby cafe.  John is to join them in the early afternoon.

Sherlock turns his eyes to John and a glimmer of heat passes through them.  “It’s a pity you couldn’t bring your gun, but since Rainer has fifty or so of his own, you might not feel the loss today, after all,” he says.

“Oh!” John is visibly excited.

“He also builds his own firearms,” Sherlock adds.

“Forty four are serviceable, and three are of my own design, that is correct,” Rainer confirms proudly.

“And he’d like to show them to you.” Sherlock nods to Rainer.    _“Dafür bin ich dankbar.   Auf wiederschauen.”_   And he hurries away. 

That one look, however, has gone straight through John’s heart. 

“Dr. Watson, come with me please, and let me first show you around the grounds from the Schönbrunn palace,” says Rainer, whose stilted, German-accented speech has already brought Frederick’s atelier to John’s mind.  

He is certain he is ruined for life; as they start walking, John’s eyes fall on several old oak trees in their vivid reds and oranges, nearby.  _For life_.  “All right then,” he says to Rainer.  “Please just call me John.”

“Thank you,” answers the Austrian.  “Have you, John, ever fired a flintlock musket?  No?  Ach, if you will, I can tell you about my muskets.”  They turn onto a path which is lined in sculpted beds of colourful flowers. “The great love of my life was built by Henry Blyth, about the year 1755.  I have two such muskets, with the -- how do you call them -- ach, brass blunderbuss barrels, and the cannon muzzles.  Of course, you may load and shoot with me tomorrow, if you will to try them....”

 _Oh, hell yeah!_ “Sounds great.  Oh, what’s that?” John points at a historic greenhouse.

“The _Palmenhaus_.  A palm house -- the hothouse for exotic plants.”

“Right.  So.  Where do you get the ammunition for your muskets?” 

____________

_* German texts:_

_\- Rainer, show him your collection of weapons._

_\- Of course, gladly._

_\- He was in the military.  Take him shooting with you, he shoots superbly.  Perhaps tomorrow._

_\- Oh, I see.  Of course._

_\- I am grateful [to you] for it.  Goodbye._

***

Sherlock and Alex are at one of the older Viennese cafes, _Hawelka_ , drinking coffee.  Alex had asked for decaf.  Sherlock had docketed that fact as potentially worrying but had demonstratively rolled his eyes and called him a heretic.  They have settled in for a chat.  Sherlock has just taken Alex’s _Daumenkino_ out of his pocket.

“Good you had this.  There’s an enthusiast’s club in Linz, you know?” Alex says.  “I wanted to show it to them.”

“Yours is impressive.”

“I’ve seen much, much better ones.  Well, it’s not intended to compete with anyone else’s work, it was only a nightmare of mine.”

“Your nightmare and your patience.  Nightmarish amounts of it,” Sherlock remarks.

“No, I worked on it for, like, four months, just in my spare time, not so bad.  You might try.  It would be a good challenge for you,” Alex replies, sipping.

“I’m not as long-suffering.”  _Not at all._

“What would you make?”

Sherlock shrugs.  _A phoenix like the one in Stockholm, the glass mosaic from the 1980s, a long tail flicking over the sea like a bouquet -- of snakes, a threat:  use again, and you will burn.  Your ashes will fall into the sea.  The sea is gray with the ashes of others’ weaknesses.  Of course it’s not.  Of course not.  It is merely the Baltic Sea.  Gray.  Only five parts per thousand saltier than a human tear -- of course --_

 _What is it?  What --_   

“Sherlock -- are you with me?” Alex asks, looking at him closely.

 _Too quiet._  “Oh.  Of course.  Where is your watch?”

“In my pocket, right here.”  Alex taps his jacket at the chest.

“I can’t hear it.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Because it’s stopped.”

Sherlock sits forward.  “Why has it stopped?”

“I don’t know, it happened in the night last week and I haven’t been able to get it restarted,” Alex sighs.

“So may I open it?”

“If you have to.” Alex is trying to smile, though he is clearly bothered.  He doesn’t understand Sherlock’s expression, which he finally takes for impatience, though he doesn’t see how that could be the case.  “I brought it along today because the watchmakers in Linz refused to take it, but another here in the _Altstadt_ has just refused it, as well.  I’ll have it repaired in Oxford Street, I suppose.” 

Alex has taken it out and hands it to Sherlock, who has already taken out a pocketknife to gently work it open.  The back plate is engraved inside in miniscule script:  _Latet enim veritas, sed nihil pretiosius veritate._ * _To H. G. A. St. Villiers from Mother X.1963._

“The truth was not beautiful,” he remarks, recovering from a brief flush of pride that has spread across his cheeks, at his own deductive skills.

“It wasn’t beautiful, no.”  Alex rubs at the bridge of his nose.  “But I will not be forced to marry,” he says, with a short, bitter laugh.  

Sherlock has pulled his magnifier out of his pocket and is gazing at the watch parts. “Mmm.  Imagine the sustained misery of it.  The sentiment in it is only important if it is genuine, which generally it is not, making it a barren and self-indulgent bother.  A wasteful venture, as choices go.”

“What is, Sherlock?”

“Marriage.” 

“Oh.  Cynical.”  Alex smiles.  Sherlock finds it out of place and then realises why.  He looks strikingly relaxed.  “Well,” the artist says, “I actually meant something else entirely, that I’ve not got my parents to force me.  I would marry, if I weren’t already forty and graying, with the social graces of the average garden snail.  Though it has been argued by some that gay marriage is also barren, self-indulgent and wasteful.  Therefore a bother.  Ha ha -- a -- ha!”  He has suddenly started laughing, uncontrollably. 

Sherlock has a momentary, fretful impulse that he should make Alex calm down.  He feels dizzy himself; the coffee is beginning to enhance the remaining effects of the antihistamines in his bloodstream.

“So few things are really choices.”  Alex is trying to catch his breath.  He is still smiling.  It looks remarkable; he rarely laughs so openly.  “It’s all so silly, isn’t it?  Random, and we’ve no control.  It’s quite dreadful,” he quips, in the peculiar intonation of his noble great aunt.  Soon he is snickering and looking down at his hands with tears (of mirth, it would seem, though it is unclear) in his eyes. 

“We choose and act,” Sherlock replies, waving a hand.  “There is little more.  A series of choices and transactions.”

“I know that’s your preferred model.  But it’s painful to imagine.  Love?  Feelings?” Alex stares at him.

“Love is also one of those choices.  Feelings, for the most part, as well.”

“Do you really think we have deep consciousness of what and why we decide things?  Later we look back and it seems clear --“

“It is always about choice,” Sherlock says, firmly.

“It isn’t enough to choose someone and act.”

“Isn’t it?  What else is involved?” Sherlock crosses his arms and smiles immodestly.

“Oh I see.  You think that’s how you got John?” Alex asks.

“ _Got_.  Ambiguous.  Not your style.” 

Alex’s licks his lips reflectively.  “You’re right.  You’re a terrible influence on me.”

“Excellent.”

“I’ve even had half a mind lately to seduce an officer.”

“Your heart is somewhere else entirely and you know it.  A nice piece of work, though, isn’t it,” Sherlock says, smiling, as he tilts the watch under his magnifier.

Alex watches with absorption how the corners of Sherlock’s lips are distorted and reflected in the lens below him.  He clears his throat ostentatiously.  “Others have said the same, to be sure.”

Sherlock glances up at Alex; he clicks his magnifier shut and shoves it in his pocket along with the knife.  

“And did he like -- ?” Alex asks, taking his cup in his hand; he raises an eyebrow. 

“He did.”  Sherlock represses another smile with great difficulty.  His cheeks are starting to ache from it.

“And the drawing, too, I suppose?” Alex titters.

“Yes.  All right.  I want to know if I’ve sent you to the right place.”  

“Well.  You know I only accepted this job because I was afraid you’d sketch all my internal organs if I didn’t,” Alex replies.

“Rightfully so,” Sherlock says, pushing the back of the watch closed with his thumbs and handing it across the table. “Not too provincial for you in Linz?”

“No.  It’s wonderful,” Alex says. “I could never ask for more.  I would gladly stay on much longer.  Our deadline is the fifteenth of November, though we’re _ahead_ of schedule.  Imagine.  That’s the kind of team I work with.”

“Your artwork merits more recognition,” Sherlock says.  “Where would you like it all to go?”

“Oh, you know, I read about some swapped guide dogs in the _Wiener Zeitung_ , and they mentioned you --”

“I asked you a question.”

“Well.  I’m not sure, Sherlock,” Alex replies.

“A proper exhibit?  If you want, we can talk to Jens about it, he knows who can make it happen.”

“I’ll think about it, hard to say when.”

Sherlock’s phone starts vibrating against his chest and for a split second it feels disgusting to him.  “Excuse me, I need to take this.” 

“Of course.”

Sherlock hears Mycroft’s voice:  “ _Mortar is go.”_ He hangs up and frowns.  “I thought we’d have much longer.”

“It was a pleasure to see you here at all.  I’m glad you could spare the time.”

They stand.  The pace of their conversation accelerates.  Sherlock gives Alex all of his Euro coinage and offers his hand.  Alex takes it and sighs.  _“_ Back to immersion in German.  Waterboarding, in fact.  Have mercy.  _Auf wiederschauen._ ” *

 _Such cold fingers_ , Sherlock thinks, _in such contrast to John’s, which are always pleasurably warm.  Vigorous and healthy_.  At the thought of John’s hands he feels anxiety pooling in his stomach.   _“Du bist beim Berühren kalt,”_ he says. 

 _"Ich weiss nicht wohin mit meinen Händen,”_ Alex replies.

 _"Unwahrscheinlich.”_ Sherlock leans closer to him.   _He flinches at my touch as if he were about to have his throat cut.  Cannot blame him_.  “Embrace me affectionately,” he whispers.  “Is the man you’ve been admiring by the window photographing us?  Forgive me.”

“It’s fine.” Alex stiffly puts one hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and whispers, “Is he following you?  Not photographing us, as far as --”

“Don’t let it worry you, it’s my work.  Help John when he calls.  He won’t know I’ve gone,” Sherlock says, pulling Alex close against his chest and speaking straight into his ear.  “Now you listen.  Your seventy percent chance of survival was a conservative estimate made chiefly to avoid legal liability.  It is anecdotal from a statistical standpoint.” _Bergamot, iris, jasmine, amber --_

“Oh.  Oh, Lord.”  Alex puts both of his arms around Sherlock. “Whatever you know, do me the honour of forgetting it.”

“You are seriously ill.  Not your choice.”  _Leather, sandalwood, vetiver.  Exquisite.  Cannot lick him._  “But being foolish about it _is_.”

“He’s staring out the window now, and I think he might have nodded to somebody.  Sherlock.  You see, my Mum --”

“Light years ago, in terms of medical advancement.   _More affectionately_.”

Alex is certain that Sherlock is sniffing him, as he had once before, in his kitchen, in London.  He tries to disregard it.  “I have to set everything right first.” 

Sherlock speaks very rapidly into his ear.  He is running out of time. “So you will.  I emailed you the names and contact data of four people this morning.  Doctor Robert Kingmann knows bovine and porcine pericardial tissue like the insides of his own pockets and has co-developed a newly-patented biomechanical valve, the upcoming standard.  Doctor Andrew Leitner has never lost a single patient on the table in his eleven years of operating valves almost exclusively.  Doctor Mara Bhatnagar and Doctor Judith Jameson are professors of cardiology, both outstanding in planning and supervising corrective surgery of congenital atrial and valve defects.  You will speak to at least two of the four about your case when you return to London next month, or I _will_ sketch all your internal organs, I assure you, and we need you in one piece.  Jens has heard _such_ good things about you.  It’s only a matter of time and patience now.”

“You are absolutely _outrageous_.  I _adore_ you,” Alex whispers, and laughs a little, though he has tears in his voice.

 _I didn't tell John --_   Sherlock pulls away from Alex and looks at him for a second longer than he means to.   _Focus, for God’s sake!_   “Give John your broken watch to take back to London.  For repair.  But when you give it him, please tell him, firmly:  ‘ _remember’_.”

“Oh, of course, he might take it for me, yes.”

“I need to go back to my hotel,” Sherlock says, louder.  “Thanks for a nice chat.” 

“So see you in London.”

“Goodbye, Alex.”

“Do mind the road,” Alex calls after him.  “Please!”

Sherlock leaves the cafe and rushes away across the street.

Sherlock considers how to contact John.  He wants to see him now with an urgency that seems to be locking down his entire chest as he takes the steps to the Viennese Underground two at a time.   _Beautiful, dearest John.  Holding a musket.  Tamping powder -- patched lead bullet -- wide-eyed man -- licking his lips -- as they spread -- into a grin -- Rainer wouldn’t care --_

Sherlock’s heart hammers in his throat.   He is being tailed by at least two people; they are quick and determined.  His brother’s plan appears to be working.  Sooner than anticipated.  Something is off.

_Think!_

_____________

_* German and Latin texts:_

_Inscription:  The truth is hidden but nothing is more beautiful than the truth._

_\- Goodbye.  (Austrian)_

_\- You’re cold to the touch._

_\- I don’t know what to do with my hands. / where to with my hands._

_\- That’s unlikely._


	57. My dearest treasure

Rainer has had a very receptive audience for his ramblings about his gun collection and arcane knowledge of ballistics in crime; he and John have exchanged phone numbers and are planning to meet again the following morning, when Rainer will take John for target practice at a professional shooting range in the countryside.  Now that John has just learned how to load and cock several types of antique rifles and pistols, he can hardly wait to see and feel how they fire.

During the last several hours he has grown nostalgic over the process of reloading -- not during his war, but in times when every single shot was prepared with effort, under time pressure and while in mortal danger; a man would be exceedingly vulnerable as he reloaded, even from his own weapon misfiring.  It would force far more thought and precision.  And reflection, about where the shot would go.  John has always felt that a man’s honour lies close to the ability to _reflect_ at the right time.  Stay in control.  _Anyone can point a gun and unload its magazine.  It is surgical in that.  Little contact -- nothing like a knife, with full contact, when you can smell the kill.  Or a sword that has to be driven through a man, face to face, full force --_

In the midst of these musings, John drops by the hotel to clean up before making his way to the Hawelka Cafe.  He has a large smudge of black powder across the front of his shirt, and more of it in his nostrils and fingertips.  He thinks it smells fantastic, but objectively speaking, it does not make him particularly presentable for lunch.

When he pads down the plushly carpeted hall to his and Sherlock’s room, he has the impression that their door is being held ajar by a housekeeping cart filled with chemicals, bags of sheets and towels.  Once he is closer, he sees that it isn’t theirs but the next one over.  As soon as he has put his key card against the lock and reached out to push the handle down, a maid darts out from behind the cart.  She glances over her shoulder and approaches him with a spray bottle in one hand and a bunched blue paper towel in the other.  She looks at the gunpowder stain on his chest.

 _“Entschuldigung, Mein Herr,”*_ she says.

“Hello,” he says, and flashes a smile her way, as he pushes at the door, which seems to have just re-locked itself.

 _“Ein Moment, bitte, hör mir zu,”_ she says in a quiet voice. 

“No, that’s all right,” John says, shaking his head.  “We’ve got everything, just arrived this morning, thanks.”

 _“Für Sie,”_ she whispers, holding the paper towel out at him.

“No, no thank you, it’s all right, we’re fine here,” John says, putting up a hand.

_“Für Sie, bitte!”_

_Please?_   “Really...” John clears his throat in annoyance, mostly at himself.

 _“Nein.  Der Mann.  Nicht schreiben konnte._ _Verstehen Sie?  Cholera jasna, no!”_

“Sorry, I can’t -- _spreche nicht._ ” _Damn it!_

 _“_ Man.  _Diktat!  Kurde, nie wiem jak Panu powiedzieć inaczej!”_   She stuffs the paper towel in his hand and stalks away to remove her cart of chemicals and linens from the nearby doorway.  As she goes, John wonders if she might have been waiting for him.  It appears she had been, though that wouldn’t make much sense.  He growls to himself -- _did she really just try to squirt window cleaner on me?_

Once inside the room, he starts to rub at the gunpowder on his shirt with the paper towel.  It doesn’t help at all, so he throws it aside, unbuttons his shirt and shucks it off.  He scrubs his face and hands; once he’s changed, he glances around the room, slips a guide book into his coat pocket, and leaves for the _Hawelka_.

_________________

_* German and Polish texts:_

_\- Excuse me, sir._

_\- One moment, please.  Listen to me._

_\- For you._

_\- For you, please [here]!_

_\- No.  The man.  Couldn’t write.  Understand?  [In Polish]  Bloody hell!_

_\- Sorry, I can’t -- I can’t speak._

_\- Man.  A dictation!  [In Polish] Crap, I don’t know how to tell you otherwise!_

***

A quick look around the cafe is enough to convince John that Sherlock and Alex have already moved on.  He rings Sherlock; the number is out of service. 

He reluctantly calls Alex.

“Hello, John, good afternoon,” he hears.

“Alex, I haven’t been able to find you.  Are you two still here somewhere?”

“No, but perhaps we could still meet up for a chat?” Alex asks.

“Right.  Sure.  Where?”

“The Leopold.  It’s a museum.  If you’re at the _Hawelka_ , you’re rather close.  Ask someone in the street as you go.  You might just ring me when you see a low rectangular fountain in an inner courtyard shared by several museums, and I’ll come out and meet you there.  You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Low rectangular fountain.”  John sees a tourist map on a corner nearby, trots over to it for a quick look, glances about, turns, and starts walking.  “All right.”

Ten minutes later, John is seated on the concrete edge of that fountain; he texts Alex and looks around a bit at the Viennese families (very much at ease in the museum square) and watches some children play with a large red ball.  John scans the perimeter of the courtyard for Sherlock but doesn’t see him among the people who are milling and sitting about, and decides he must be in the museum.  Soon, he catches sight of the artist descending the stairs in front of a glass entryway.  Alone. 

As Alex draws closer, he greets John cordially as if he were a long-awaited ambassador.  He seems even grayer than John had remembered him but he does not look _timid_ , true.  He looks _ill_.John wonders if Sherlock has just managed to upset him again somehow.  “What’s happening?  You’re peaky,” John says.

“Possibly so.”  Alex sighs.  His hands are trembling slightly.

Something occurs to John.  _Oh, shit.  The mitral stenosis, all those bloody cardiologists._  “Your heart, is it?” John asks, feeling an unpleasant charge of adrenaline from chest to gut.  _God, he’s not well._

“He told you, then.  I’ve really no idea how he knows,” Alex replies.

“He didn’t tell me, but he’s asked about pathologies.  A genetic mitral valve defect?” 

“Yes.  And I have a porcine valve that needs seeing to.”

“You feel faint under stress?” John asks.

“Not so often,” Alex says, clearly ready to change the subject.

“Well --“

“I won’t take much of your time, but I preferred not to talk on the phone.  Perhaps it’s all the spy novels I read.”

“Okay, understood.”  John is looking around them.  “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He left before twelve.  That’s the --”

“Left?  Where did he go?”

“He said he was going to your hotel.  Perhaps he’s there now.”

_His coat.  His coat was there, in our room, folded on top of his suitcase.  How did I not register that!  Okay.  Because it’s warmish.  Hasn’t gone far, then..._

“But did he say why?”

“No.  Someone called and he left soon afterward.”  Alex is watching disappointment wavering in John’s face; he feels sorry for him.  “Perhaps there was a change of plans.  I don’t know.  He was certainly hoping to see you for lunch.”

“Hmm.” 

“But the point is that someone was following him, John.”

“Following him.  Did you see who it was?”

“Yeah.   He was in the cafe.  It wasn’t clear to me whether or not Sherlock knew him.”  Alex swallows.  “He thought he’d take photographs of us.”

 _Photographs?  Mycroft._ “Oh.  Right,” John says, and decides his priority at the moment is to calm Alex down; he looks poorly.  “His brother has us tailed a lot for sport, actually.  Government.”

“Oh, really?”

“A megalomaniac, you could say, yeah.”

“My late brother, David, was quite the narcissist,” Alex replies. “And a neuropsychiatrist.  I know the syndrome, but we love them dearly anyhow.”

“Hmm.” John shrugs.  He thinks that through for a second; several oil paintings of tattooed cocks and arses flash in his memory.  _A neuropsychiatrist, painting corpses_ \-- _oh, Jesus._   “Well, I’m sure at least one person is photographing us about now.”

“I see, so someone is often photographing Sherlock?” Alex asks.  John shrugs and nods.  Alex is not at ease, having heard that; he can still feel Sherlock’s arms closing around his shoulders; in fact, he can feel little else.  He wonders to himself how John can bear Sherlock’s intensity.  He looks at John, considers his possessive nature, and makes a rather thorny judgement call.  “Then at least one person has also photographed Sherlock and me in each other’s arms,” he says.

John looks at him disbelievingly.  “What?” 

“At the _Hawelka_ ,” Alex adds.

John’s heart has already started pounding.  He tries (quickly) to process that rationally; he recalls that Sherlock has always described Alex as honest to a fault.  He decides that it does concern photographs for some reason, but it is still painful to imagine.  “To provoke the man who was following him?” he finally asks, rubbing his knees.

“Well, John, I can’t imagine why else he would _ask_ me to do so,” Alex replies emphatically.

“Yeah.” John’s jaw clenches at that.

Again, Alex finds that he feels sorry for John, who despite his natural reserve and strength appears to be struggling inside.  “I can describe that man, or, no.  I’ll sketch him for you,” Alex says.  “And you’ll see if you know him.”

“Yeah.  When you’re feeling up to it, draw whatever you remember.  Maybe one of our usual spies.  I’m sure it was,” John says tightly. 

“I really hope so,” Alex answers.  His hands are still trembling but he opens his backpack and pulls out a small spiral bound sketchbook and pencil.  “Just a moment,” he says.

“No.  Take your time.”

“All right,” Alex says, and sets to work.  The pencil scrapes, and he starts talking.  “He was waiting.  He was sitting three tables away, by a window.  I doubt he was able to hear us.  He didn’t look English, more like a local.  He was elegant, but had a certain bearing, well built, athletic, about my height or Sherlock’s.  Perhaps he was government, but he was restless, like a smoker.  Smartly dressed -- gray trousers, elegant boots, a navy coat, quite well cut.  He had an Iphone with white earbuds on the table in front of him.  Here is his face.”  Alex gives John the notebook.  “I had the impression that he was looking at someone outside at least once.”

John looks at it and feigns relief.  “Oh, yeah.  Okay.  Sounds about right.”  Alex tears the page out of the notebook.  He already looks far more relaxed by the process of drawing, so John asks, “Could you draw me?  I’m just going to check something on my phone.”

“Yes, of course,” Alex says, and his pencil starts moving furiously across the notebook.

John snaps a photo of the drawing and sends it to Mycroft.

_Following S, from Hawelka Cafe 12:00.  6ft well dressed.  One of two? Yours?  John W._

_Known to me.  AN is a talent.  An excellent likeness.  MH_

That is not the answer John wants.  But one random factor feels slightly less random. 

“John, tell me, how did you meet Sherlock?” Alex asks.

“Yeah.  We were both looking for flats at the time and we had a mutual acquaintance, it was somewhat accidental, but.  We lived together, uhm, for almost two years and then...” John stares down at his hands.

“Yeah.  I know, in fact.  I only wanted to observe the movement of your face and choose a mimic set.”  Alex puts down his notebook and looks at him almost as penetratingly as Sherlock, but without that shade of quick, suspicious query that makes Sherlock so intimidating.  “I’ve never seen you smile,” he remarks, and then shakes his head.  “Sorry, not my concern, I realise.”

John is taken aback, but he knows that it is probably true.  “No reason to apologise,” he says.

“Thank you, John.”

“We’ve only seen each other a few odd times.  When Sherlock’s up to something.  Like today.  Really, I should apologise.”

“No.  Not at all.”  Alex puts the pencil back to the page.  “Of course not.  As for what he’s up to, I admit I find him rather puzzling, as a person, naturally you see him quite differently.  That said, I’ve hardly met anyone so determined to express himself for such a single-minded purpose.  The expression is often laboured, and yet, the message is always the same.  Honestly, the _effort_.  He’s not even one to give himself over to organic expression, is he?” he rambles, as he draws.  Alex seems to be scribbling with the side of his pencil.  To John it is a bit surreal to be sitting and listening to Alex talk this way.  It occurs to him how few people are really able to speak of Sherlock in any detail.  He tries to pay fuller attention as two children start shrieking and jumping near them along the edge of the fountain while a lady laughs and photographs them.  “Certainly not, that’s the thing,” the artist continues. “He is better at copying two-dimensional images and making technical line drawings, and I would say he is good at scientific drawings for documentation, considering his lack of formal training.  But his original work is very expressive.  Emotional, without all the usual -- what could we call it.  Technical moderation.  There’s an odd _form_ , for instance, but the meaning that comes through is very clear, isn’t it?  A lot of internal struggle in it, as well.  I wish I could understand it better, but I’m afraid I can’t claim to.  His more recent work is -- well, I’m sure you’d agree that it’s far more sensual.  Then again, he is deeply in love with you.  And he wants to put it across.” 

In spite of being tense and concerned, John has broken into a brief smile.  And Alex has caught it:  it will make for an excellent rendering.  John -- feeling cared for.

“Which recent work?” John finally asks, because on reflection he finds he doesn’t really know what Alex is referring to.  “Which in particular?”

“He’s been working on anatomy.  Skulls, now.  Preparing several diagrams for a paper.  Before that it was legs, arms, backs, jawbones, and also materials, clothing, and folds.  A lot of folds.  He doesn’t excel at shading.”

“Oh,” John says.  “Well, I think he does all of that when I’m gone.”

Alex smiles to himself; he has seen sketches which are certainly of John, asleep (rather inconveniently, he has just recalled one that had been drawn from the perspective of John’s feet).  He sighs.  “Well.  Most of it was for the drawing of two soldiers making love on the floor.  He worked on every part of it separately.  Lovely work, I’d have it for myself, really.”

John’s mouth has dropped open.  “Wh -- at?”

“Of course, I do realise it was a present for you, I only meant _objectively_ that I would have it,” Alex explains. 

“Yeah, yeah, but, hmm,” John mumbles.  He takes out his phone and pulls up the photo of the ink drawing from the staircase at Sir Hutcheonthorpe’s club.  “This one, you mean?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Alex says, glancing up and then taking the phone from John for a closer look.  “This one’s much darker.  It’s been fully inked in with a rapidograph.” Alex gives the phone back.  “I find it incredibly evocative.”

“Yeah,” John says, as he pinches at the screen and looks at it all again carefully.  And then he spies it -- in the corner, in microscopic letters:  _SH_.

 _John, as ever you see but you do not observe.  Damn it.  In plain sight right in front of my face.  Oh, my God, that was all for me._ John’s ears are burning.

“Here,” Alex says, handing his notebook over.  “Is there anything I might rework for you?”

“Oh.  No,” John says, gazing down at a likeness of himself that is quite startling.  “Nothing at all.  It’s really good.  I mean, excellent.”

Alex doesn’t answer. 

“Can I keep it?” John asks.

“Of course.”  Alex takes the notebook back, scratches something onto it quickly with his pencil and tears the drawing out carefully, handing it to him with a light smile. 

“Have you ever done any drawings of Sherlock again?” John asks, carefully slipping the sketch into his guide book with the other man’s portrait.

“Yeah, I have several of them,” Alex replies. “They’re in London, though.”

“Not particularly easy, I’m sure.  Never holds still much.” 

“No, he doesn’t.  Remind me sometime and I’ll get them out for you.  John, in fact, I have a train to catch soon.  I should start to make my way, I only stopped by here to buy a book for a friend and visit a favourite Schiele or two of mine.”

“Right.  I’ll see you off.  You’re still pale.”

“Oh, it’s been a good day.  Though I expect Bond to show up in the middle of it any time now.”

“It’s not that glamourous,” John remarks, and they stand up from the fountain’s edge. 

***

At the _Wien Westbahnhof,_ Alex confirms his platform number on the departure board and then turns and offers his hand to John.  “Thank you, for taking the time.”

John shakes it.  _God, really cold_.  “You have a long ride?”

“No, just over an hour and half.  And lovely.  Oh.  John,” Alex says, reaching into his pocket. “I’ve a favour to ask of you.”

“Okay, what is it.”

“Well.  It appears the watchmakers here won’t undertake the repair of my watch.  It’s broken, sadly, I don’t know why, it’s always run so well.”  He holds the beautiful timepiece out to John.  “Sherlock told me to give it to you to take back to London.”

 _Why didn’t he just take it._ “What?”

“He said I should give it to you, to take to London.  Oh, yes, and to tell you, _’remember’,”_  Alex says emphatically.  He has seen something flare in John’s face.  “Sorry.  Of course you’ll remember.  Perhaps you would leave it for me in Oxford Street -- I would pick it up -- on my return.  I’ll text you the address.  I can’t remember that man’s last name now, I’ll look it up.  Oh.  I see I’m imposing.”

John has been staring down at the watch in his hand.  “No.  No, you’re not, at all.  Oh, it’s nice.  Engraved.  Hands.” 

“Yeah, quite fine to look at, but totally useless, really, as long as it isn’t running.  I’d pick it up when I come home, in several weeks.  There’s often a rather long wait.”

“Of course.  Right.” John puts the watch in his pocket.

“Please call if you need anything while you’re here.  And do take care, you’re quite pale, doctor.” Alex smiles. 

“Yeah.  I think I need some lunch,” John says, shrugging.

“See you both in London,” Alex tells him, as his train approaches the station.

“Have a safe trip, then,” John says, and soon turns on his heel and marches away.

***

John returns to the area near their hotel by underground.  He has meat dumplings and mild sauerkraut at a pleasant cafe and washes it down with a half-pint of Viennese lager.  It occurs to him partway through his meal that if he’d known Sherlock wouldn’t be at the Leopold with Alex, he’d have made an excuse and refused Alex’s request to chat.  And if he had done so, he wouldn’t have any clue about what had happened at the _Hawelka_ , and Alex would have gone back to Linz.  With the watch. 

_So Alex has mitral stenosis.  The watch would stop, without the arm, me.  Why leave it with me.  Jesus.  Getting paranoid.  Shit.  Okay, enough --_

Once he’s finished his beer he makes his way through the Old Town; he sends Marv a snapshot that he’d taken of a street performer dressed as the grim reaper with a cigarette in his hand, along with a snarky text.  On the way he stops in three delicatessens and one wine shop; at the last of these he finally finds what he wants:  a bottle of Austrian _Nikolaihof_ Riesling from 2009, to taste on Sherlock’s beautiful lips.  He finds he really likes what he’s seen of the city, along with all of its architectural contrasts, but most of all he looks forward to holding Sherlock, kissing him madly, and telling him all about how to load and cock a smooth bore pistol before taking him to bed.  He snaps a picture of a stunning, patterned cathedral roof in the afternoon sun, with a two-headed black eagle made in colourful mosaic tiles. 

As far as he is concerned, it is a phoenix.

***

Once back in the room, John sees that Sherlock’s coat is still folded on his suitcase; it doesn’t appear he’d been by in the meantime.  As he sets the wine on the bedside table, like a trophy, John grins to himself.  He removes everything from his coat and jeans pockets and lays it all out, with the exception of Alex’s watch.  He flops down on the bed and looks at it again; it is a lovely thing, indeed.  He holds it and tilts it back and forth a few times, pressing it against his ear every so often; it remains dead silent.  

His hands are sweaty, perhaps from the lager and the brisk walk, and he has left his fingerprints all over its casing and face.  He glances about and grabs the blue paper towel he’d thrown down earlier and starts polishing the glass carefully.  As he does so, he notices that the paper in his hand has -- letters on it. _What the hell._  He smooths the towel over his knee.  Written in an unfamiliar hand, in biro, he reads:

_Mein liebster schats, zuch mich nicht.  Fahr ohne mich zuruck und_

John can’t make out a word. 

He thinks about the cleaning lady and her insistence that he take the towel from her.  What had she been trying to explain?  He tries to remember their exchange as he rings Alex.

“Yes, hello, John.”

“Hey, Alex.  Back in Linz?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Listen, I need to tax your good will,” John tells him. 

“No bother, John.  Can you hear me all right?”

“Yeah.  I want to text you a photo of something German to translate, can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, just a moment, I’ll call you back.”

John stares down at the towel and carefully snaps a photograph of it.  He sends it off.  When he is sure several minutes have passed, he calls again.  “Have you had a chance to read through it?” he asks Alex.

“Yes, John.  But it wasn’t written by anyone Austrian,” Alex replies.

“It’s not Sherlock’s handwriting but someone gave it to me and it might be from him, or not, I don’t know.”

“It could well be from his perspective.”

“Hmm.  By the way, what does _Diktat_ mean?  Dictate?”

“Dictation.  Aha.  So this was dictated?  That makes sense.  Sherlock would never make these mistakes.”

“What exactly does it say?”

“ _My beloved treasure_ , or, _my dearest treasure.”_

“Treasure.  Yeah?”

“See, _Liebster_ is _dearest_ , but referring to a man.  _Schatz_ , treasure -- endearment, not awkward in German at all.  It's certainly to you.  Can you hear me, John?  There’s static.”

“Yeah.”

John stares down at the flimsy paper in his hand as Alex continues.

“Oh, Lord.  No, no, that was me.  Sorry _\--_ but it’s all spelled wrong.  It says, _don’t look for me.”_

“Okay, what else?” John asks, his entire chest contracting. 

 _“Go back without me_ ,” Alex reads, and pauses a bit. 

_“And?”_

“Yes.  It’s the end.  It ends with the word ‘ _and’.”_

“Unfinished?”

“That’s how it looks.”

“Read it again, all together?”

“ _’My dearest treasure, don’t look for me, go back without me, and.’_ “

_Oh, shit._

“I hope he isn’t doing anything too outlandish, John.”

“He’s _fine_.”

“If something is amiss, don’t feel you have to spare me somehow,” Alex says. 

“For now there’s no reason to think something’s gone wrong,” John replies, between his teeth.

“Even so,” Alex says, “it appears you may be on your own, John.  If you need anything else at all, do call me straight away.  It’s no bother whatsoever.” 

 _Not mousey, you’re not mousey._ “Thank you,” John says.  “I will.”

“Take care.”

 _Appears,_ John thinks, _I most certainly have been left on my own.  In Vienna.  Of all places!_ He wants to believe he has somehow misunderstood everything.  _It’s his, for fuck’s sake.  Why dictated?  Why couldn’t he write it?  Bound?  Handcuffed?  Where?  Here?  Why in German?  The cleaning lady.  No English.  Maybe...she came by and found him.  She could have untied him and helped.  So maybe handcuffed, then.  Someone held him here?  Why here?  Maybe not here.  In another room.  Someone was waiting for him.  She came.  He dictated in German, told her to give it to me.  She was waiting around.  If so, how long did she wait?  His coat is here, maybe everything happened here, while I was out.  Shit!_ John looks around the room more carefully; he goes into the bathroom.  The only thing he can see that suggests any of the scenario he has envisioned is a row of small black scuff marks at the base of the door.  He cannot remember if they’d been there before; he is all the more irritated at the thought that Sherlock would determine it immediately.  

_Do not look for me._

Look for Sherlock?  John sees he would have nothing whatsoever to go on.  That fact is now splintering into more and more tiny, painful, nagging questions which are starting to work themselves under his skin.  He can deny it all he wants, but he has been _lied to._   And _left_.  That is obvious enough to him now.

As always, the _why_ of it remains elusive to him.  And here, his heart freezes over in anger.   _As always!_


	58. Do not flinch

_My dearest treasure._ As much as John had looked forward to a walk through the Old Town with Sherlock at night, he finds he can’t be arsed to go out, at all; he eats supper at the hotel.  Later, he crossly watches a football match on the telly (a tie, missed penalty kicks in overtime), alternating aimlessly between that and a documentary about Swiss female kickboxers training in Thailand with a malicious master and a string of odd inter-cultural misunderstandings; John glares at them unthinkingly; his eyes soon start to feel sandy and tired. 

 _Do not look for me._ By one in the morning, John is alternately problem-solving and telling himself off for it; later he sleeps restlessly, in spite of himself -- but with his ears open, waiting to hear a lock click open in the night.  A lock does wake him -- he is upright like a shot -- though it is one somewhere across the hallway.  Even so, he is close to going to see who is there.  He reconsiders that, however, and flops back down with a groan.  _Go back without me.  And._

 _And what, Sherlock.  Why, love.  Why would I want to._ His head is crawling with irrational ideas. 

At six-thirty, he starts checking his messages and reads some news, but all the denial that had got him through the night is quickly displaced when there is a knock on the door at exactly seven a.m.  He jumps off the bed and goes to open it; he sees two bulky men ( _Mycroft’s, got to be_ ) in earpieces and fine suits.  “Help you?” he huffs.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” one says civilly. “We’ve come for Sherlock Holmes’ baggage and effects.”

 _Like hell you have._   John straightens and stares daggers at them both.  “And.  I’ll just hand them over to you, because?”

“It is at the personal request of Mycroft Holmes, sir.”

John grunts and closes the door on them with the side of his foot.  He is about to dial Mycroft when he receives a curt text from the man; he curses down at it in his hand and types back,

_Where is your brother?_

_An undisclosed location in Vienna.  MH_

_So disclose it._

_That is not feasible at this time, John.  MH_

_Should I expect him today if you’re taking all his things?_

_No.  Return to London tomorrow as planned.  MH_

_Explain all of this?_

_In due time.  Kindly let the gentlemen in.  MH_

John very grudgingly re-opens the door.  “Go on.”  He stands by with crossed arms, his fists pressed into his ribs, as the other two wordlessly gather up Sherlock’s coat and the suitcase bag.  They look around the bathroom, survey the room, and leave quickly.

John is seething with adrenaline and in that state has a hot shower, dresses and runs downstairs to get something to eat; the hotel breakfast room is bursting with noisy, animated tourists. Once he has filled his plate with food and made himself tea, he cannot find a free table to sit down at.  A nearby family waves him down.  “Sir,” an English lady calls out, “We have an available chair, if you don’t mind us, that is.”  As John hesitantly smiles and sits down, his eyes fall on the children -- two girls are screeching and fighting over a cup of juice; the father gets up and turns away with his empty plate.  “Going back to the room, sweetie,” he tells his wife as he goes.  John refocuses his aching eyes and looks over at her; she is busily swiping a napkin over one child’s face as the other sings and bounces in her seat, sloshing some of her juice about.  The lady’s hair is pulled back in a band and she is wearing a bulky jumper, but John is certain he has seen her before.  With a start he remembers -- she had been at the museum fountain, the day before.  With the girls.  Photographing them.  _No.  Photographing me, speaking to Alex.  Or photographing Alex, making his drawings._   _Yeah, I’m sharp today, she just spoke to me in English -- took that for granted when there are people in here from all over the damned continent -- bloody hell.  Got to pay more attention._

He exhales and picks at the eggs on his plate with a fork.  He notes that the girls haven’t changed all that much, since he’d seen them last.   _Running on the beach with their black dog, in Norfolk._   At the thought of the seaside and Sherlock (blocking the wind for him -- but ill, his eyes dark with emotion -- _you are the only person I love_ \-- ) John has a moment of weakness.  His joints ache with it.   _Where are you, love?  Why are you doing this?  Why here?_   He suddenly registers that the children and their mother are moving to go.  He nods at them (his mouth is full) and watches as the girls skip away between tables, nearly knocking back an older child ( _“Regardez où vous allez!  Stupid!”_  he squeaks) who had been trying to carry a steaming tea cup to his father.  The room is chaotic and lively.  And enervating, for all that.  

As John drains the last of his tea and goes to stand, he catches sight of _the_ lady.  From housekeeping.  She is clearing tables, just across the room.  He bolts quickly out of his chair, knocking his plate against the top of the table noisily and upsetting a fork.  She turns and looks over, likely thinking that there is a spill to clean.  When she notices John, her eyes widen for a split second.  He puts up his hand.  “Please,” he says, winding between chairs to approach her.  “No.  Five minutes, okay?   _Bitte_.  Five.”

She tenses.  “No.  Work,” she replies.   

“No, come.”  John waves for her to follow him.  She looks him over carefully and grudgingly follows him until they are standing just outside the breakfast room door.

 _“Was ist los?_ What!” she asks, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and folding her arms.

“ _Nein_ ,” John says, “One moment.”  He blocks the doorway back into the dining area and dials Alex.

“Good morning, John.  How are you?” the artist answers.

“Fine.”

“He hasn’t come back, then.”

“No.  The lady who took Sherlock’s note down is here, talk to her, would you?”

“Of course.  Pass her over.”

“Ask what happened.”  John gives the lady the phone, which she takes from him with a loud sigh and puts to her ear.  He stands aside and tries to make out anything he can.  She is talking hastily and looking past him through the doorway, likely thinking of her supervisor’s current whereabouts.   _“Sie werden verstehen, dass ich dazu im Moment nicht viel sagen kann.  Ich habe so etwas hier noch nie gesehen --“_ She hands the phone back to John.

Alex says, “She just said, ‘understand that right now I can’t say much.  I have never seen anything like that here.’  Give her back now, please.”

“ _Ich meine, ich wusste nicht, was mit ihm.  Und ich wusste nicht, was ich tun sollte.”_

Alex repeats, “She said, ‘I didn't know what was happening with him.  I didn't know what I should do.’  John, just put her on, please.”

John gives the phone to the lady again and watches as she explains, waving her hand near her forehead emphatically.  Soon she gives the phone back to John and excuses herself; from her posture it is clear she has said as much as she intends to.  He thanks her and she flicks her hand again.  As she is walking away, John sighs loudly and asks Alex, “Okay.  She’s done.  So what else.”

“Well.  Apparently he was closed in a bathroom, and was in a hurry to speak.  Oh, and it wasn’t your bathroom.  She says he would have dictated more, but she wasn’t able to write it all quickly enough because she didn’t understand it all, and she’s sorry about that.  It scared her.  She didn’t see anyone come by.  And apparently _he_ sounded calm.”

“Hmmm.  Alex, thanks.  Yeah, so, I’ll let you get back to work.  I appreciate this a lot.”

“Take good care.  I wonder, John, if I would have had the presence of mind.  I doubt it.”

“I don’t know.  Well, okay.  Thanks.  Again.  Take it easy.”  John rings off and rubs his chin.   _My dearest treasure --_  

***

By the time Rainer calls to confirm their shooting expedition, John is tired of thinking and is grateful for the distraction of a day trip.  He would be willing to put holes in most everything he sees, at this point.

Once they are out at the firing range, Rainer tells him that he’s brought six guns and gives John a pouch filled with small, heavy rolled wads of paper that remind John of poorly-wrapped candies or little homemade firecrackers.

“Today you have pre-measured cartridges,” Rainer explains.  “If you are fast, you can load and shoot two in a minute.  Sometimes load three.”

“All right,” John says. “What do I do first?”

“Bite it,” Rainer says, tearing at one of the papers with his teeth and spitting the top aside. “Pour, put in the paper, put the ball.  As yesterday.”  He drops it in demonstratively. “No time to measure in battle.  It was work for the quiet times, to make the paper cartridges.  See?  Now, I will tamp it all down.”

John tears off a paper, pops it all in as Rainer had explained, and slips a tamping rod down after it.

“Hit more,” Rainer says.

“Hmm,” John says, tamping again.  “Now?”

“Now.  Fine Swiss powder number 4.  Pour here, in your pan.  Close down the frizzen over it.  Yes.  Cock the hammer back.  Remember.  Yes.  The pan must be closed.  So.  The pan is closed, and now it can fire.”  Rainer grins.  “You remember, John.  The pan will explode before.  Two explosions.  In the pan, and in the barrel.  Watch me please.  Stand behind, naturally not on the right from me, or you will -- receive the explosion from the pan.”  Rainer takes aim at a target twenty-five yards in front of them.  “You cannot -- ach.  The word for it.  Eee -- _zurückschrecken_.  Jump because you are afraid of the pan, see, John.  You cannot jump, or all the targets you will miss _completely_.”

“Okay.”

“This is seventy-five calibre.  It will kick you.  Look.” Rainer presses the rifle butt to his jaw and fires. 

Sparks and smoke fly like mad.  John catches himself giggling like a child.  “Bloody loud,” he says.  “So, did you hit it?  Can’t see a thing.”

Once the smoke around them has cleared, Rainer groans and bunches up his lips angrily so that his mustache quivers.  “ _Scheiss.  Ätzend._   A shit,” Rainer explains, gesturing at the target, which he has hit in the upper right corner.  “But you saw the two explosions.  Do not jump as I did.”

“Flinch,” John says.

“Ah, yes!  Naturally.  The _flinch-lock_ muskets, they joke in America.  _Genau_.  Do not flinch.  You will ruin all.”

_If I'm called away, you’ll carry on without me.  Damn it!  Go back without me._

John’s shot pierces the target just below Rainer’s.  Now Rainer is keyed up.  “Ach, is this your _first_ musket shot?  Your husband was very right.”

“Husband?"

“That you are a wonderful shot,” Rainer explains, tearing another paper cartridge open and dumping its charge of powder into the barrel of his gun.  He tamps the ball down and hands the weapon to John.  “Now, you pour the finer powder here, yes.  Yes, enough.  _Genau_.  Yes.  Oh, no.  Frizzen _down_ , John.” 

“Yeah, okay.  Hmm.”

“Take your next shot and do not turn your hand.  Hold with your arm.  Your arm, here.”

“Forearm?  Wrist.”

“Wrist.  Yes.  Cock, and take the shot.  Do not flinch, yes?”

(John does not.) 

The Austrian is as pleased with each of John’s numerous kill shots as he is with his own.  “You are a natural,” he declares, more than once.  “Excellent, very wonderful.  Hee hee hee!” 

John prefers the smooth-bore pistols they take out later, which are not only highly ornamental but have a very satisfying sound.  His ears are ringing and his nose is black inside by the time they have finally run out of cartridges.

“Hee hee!  So, John.  Do you prefer escalopes or the trout?” Rainer asks him, taking out his phone.

“Trout,” John says.  “Why do you ask?”

“If you will, you can come to my home again,” Rainer replies, and starts speaking to a woman in rapid fire German.  “My housekeeper is there today,” he says, winking at John, who nods politely.  “So she will bake a perfect alpine trout for you.  And I will show you some more of my guns.”

“Oh, sounds great,” John says.  He would gladly shoot longer, but they have run out of ammunitions.  “What about your musket balls?” he asks.

“Ach,” Rainer says.  “They will collect them for me.  We can go.”

***

The woman Rainer refers to as his "housekeeper" is a young, stunning and curvy brunette with delicate features and exotic, clear brown eyes who doesn’t speak much English yet manages to flirt pitilessly with them both while serving baked fish, potato wedges and fried greens; meanwhile, she is pouring bottomless glasses of dark Viennese beer for John.  At one point she settles into Rainer’s lap and kisses him, sharing a cup of mulled wine with him and tittering as he strokes her long, wavy hair.  John smiles a bit at them and gulps at his beer.  As beautiful as she is -- small in the waist and fuller in the arse and thighs -- brushing his leg as she straddles Rainer during one of their longer kisses -- and as charming as it is to be waited on, flirted with and fawned over, he misses Sherlock.  Terribly.  He is getting light in the head from the beer, and he hopes that his lonesomeness does not show through.  

A bit later, when Rainer is showing John drawings of a retro-fit safety catch he had designed and patented, the lady (named Anna, apparently) serves them warm apple cake with cream and cinnamon.  Rainer entertains John with ridiculous hunting stories and examples of crime scenes he's worked on involving large-gauge bullets until it is growing dark; he has a cast iron wood stove and the heat radiating into the room is soothing.  He is an excellent host and Anna has fed them up until they can hardly be bothered to move.  But if Sherlock had been there in the room with them, he’d have seen John’s fingers circling slowly over his knees, and he’d have known how much John needed to be kissed and loved. 

When the Austrian drives him back to the Old Town, he praises John’s shooting again.  “With you today, I was not bored on the range,” he remarks.  “And I understand that you will come to Passau with Sherlock in March,” he says, “for the conference.  I will be pleased to meet you there again.”

“Uhm.  Thank you,” John replies.  “This has been great fun.  It was a pleasure, Rainer.  And thank -- Anna -- again from me.  It was all excellent.”

“Of course,” Rainer says.  “Enjoy your stay in Vienna, John.  Much luck for you and your man.”  John nods and shrugs.  “See you in Germany.”

_Now, if I knew where my man was, I might pass that on.  Conference in Passau?_

Once in the hotel room, John carefully scrubs the black powder out of his face, hands and arms.  He’s had a good day, but his chest is tight as he thinks of getting through another night without knowing -- much of anything at all.  


	59. Reckoning

With misgiving and anger surging inside of him, John takes his return flight to London on Sunday, mid-afternoon.  Once at home, he spends most of the time laundering, cleaning, furiously hoovering, and otherwise re-arranging his flat.  By late evening, the place is spotless and nearly all signs that he had been abroad are gone, excepting the bottle of Riesling which stands in his kitchen; he soon puts it in a cupboard.  The blue paper towel with the dictated note has been stuffed deep in his bedside table drawer, as have Alex’s two sketches and a curiously grooved bullet dating from the Great War -- a spontaneous present, from Rainer’s collection.  He checks his gun, takes the magazine out, looks it over, and reflects.  A lot.

John’s instincts have been distorted and softened by intense love and concern, true.  But it hurts to be left behind.  His pride has been wounded.  And right now he cannot decide who he is more upset at -- himself, for being a complete idiot and coming home alone, or Sherlock, for lying to him and running off somewhere.  In any event, John is certain that something has gone wrong, and that he should not be here, resting his aching back and knees on his flawlessly cornered and tucked bed, in London.  He slips the gun back into his drawer.  His eyes fall on Alex’s beautiful watch, which is lying next to the lamp. _Remember._ He exhales and groans as he stretches out his back and turns over onto his side.  _Bloody wardrobe.  Fuck_.  _How did it go.  Yeah.  A story about being dependent.  A beautiful thing with engraved hands which are all we see.  Underneath, there are many complex movements._ He rubs his face in his palms.  _He told it way better, damn it.  The watch is noisy and irritating, and nobody wants to look inside.  It is enough that it works and tells them what they want to know.  The watch needs the arm to be wound up and to keep functioning.  Without it, it stops and becomes useless to the wearer and everyone else.  A machine.  Wound by me.  A beautiful object with beautiful hands and a beautiful face, which are all we really see.  Underneath them, there are many complex movements that nobody cares to know about.  The heart.  Damn it, love.  Not a machine.  A man.  I would move, no matter how, to keep you going.  If you let me.  Where are you?  Beautiful.  Need you.  Bad.  Beautiful.  Hmm.  Soldiers were all for me, just to ask.  Drew all that.  Amazing.  That's so -- you.  With class, not ‘let’s fuck' -- a tease, there on the stairs.  For me.  A chance to refuse.  Why would I.  Ever.  Gorgeous thing.  Love you.  Didn’t know.  Wanted you so bad the whole way, in that train.  Thought I would explode.  You were hot.  Wanted it.  Thought I would get to take you there, the same, on you, old school, kiss you and fuck you, gorgeous.  Kiss you.  Talk and kiss and fuck you, love, deep and slow.  Have you.  All for me.  You.  On me, going down on me, hmmm, took me and just fucked me there, tight and so warm, oh fuck, that was the best fuck -- oh God -- best -- oh -- you -- in my lap, holding me -- with your knees, like -- oh -- Jesus -- oh fuck, so hot.  Tight.  Riding me, just a little at first, fuck -- tip of me, fucking it so good, more and more, so tight -- God -- deeper -- more, and deeper -- oh God, so warm.  Slow and tight.  Ahhh, love, so good.  So -- good.  Took -- all of me.  Deep.  Hmmm.  Fuck, so good to be in you.  Hmm, nobody ever rode me like you.  Your mouth.  Sucking me.  Hard.  Tongue on me.  So hot, wet and tight.  Your lips -- you fuck like an angel -- biting -- hnnn your fingers -- sucking me -- fucking me and oh fuck -- fuck -- oh fuck, gorgeous love you love you oh fuck yeah -- ahhh.  Oh.  Christ, ahhh.  Sher -- Sherlock.  Oh God -- need you.  Love you.  So much. I love.  You.  Love you -- hmmmm --_

***

John starts work at the clinic on Monday morning at eight.  He will see twenty patients.  _Referrals.  Antibiotic.  Stomach flu with complications.  Re-fills.  Constipation.  Nagging cough.  Persistent phlegm.  Ear infection, fever._   Mid-day, near one o’clock, John feels a text buzz in his pocket; he can hardly focus enough to finish the interview with his patient.  When she has gone, he pulls his phone out and reads that his number is an alternate contact regarding a pending, scheduled delivery of food to Baker Street.  The thought crosses his mind that he might call and cancel it, but at the same time, he refuses to imagine that Sherlock will not be back in time to eat any of it.  He rings and arranges to meet the courier after work.

***

At just past six-thirty in the evening, John is at Baker Street, putting perishable foods away and organising the refrigerator.  He has just decided he will head home and get an evening paper on the way; he is slipping his coat on downstairs when he receives a call.   _Mycroft._ He sucks in a deep breath and answers.  “Yes.  Where is he.”

“In a holding pattern.  Over Heathrow,” Mycroft replies, in a casual tone.  “Touchdown in ten minutes.” 

“Okay.  But is he all right?”

“Dehydrated, undoubtedly.  There was a small storm over northwestern Germany,” Mycroft quips, with an audible smile in his voice that works down John’s entire spine.  

_“And?”_

“We located him last night.  He was debriefed in Vienna.  So he’ll come directly --”

“-- Meaning...you _didn’t know_ where _\--“_

“He was off our radar for twenty-eight and a half hours.  We’re not any more pleased by that fact than you are, John.”

 _What’s gone wrong._  “Will you tell me what the _hell_ is going on?”

“It was our intention to remove him --”

John sniffs. “Remove -- ?“

“-- Once it was apparent his cover had been blown --”

“Cover!”  _Doing damage control now?  What the fuck --_  “But.  It was about _housing!”_

Now Mycroft has heard what he’d wanted to:  a clear statement of John’s ignorance.  “Loosely speaking, yes.  And the current situation reflects my brother’s cavalier approach to lobbying with local linchpins of organised crime instead of following instructions.”

“I don’t.  But.”

“Your cooperation was greatly appreciated.”

 _Like hell it was._  “You’re welcome.” 

“Goodbye, John.” [ _click_ ]

John looks at his watch.  _Staying.  Fuck._ He goes out for that newspaper, but only to the nearest shop; puffs of his warm breath stream from his nose in his rhythmic march through the mist of the evening.

***

When Sherlock enters 221B, his eyes flick over John’s coat and shoes.  He surmises, quite correctly, that John has been in for a bit over an hour.  He removes his own coat and scarf, kicks off his damp shoes, and pads up the stairs with his suitcase bag.  He is dizzy and tired.  Mycroft has certainly been in touch, he reasons.  Drawing closer, he can smell a fire in the fireplace; he smiles.  When he opens the door and enters the living room, he sets the bag aside, takes off his jacket and looks over at his dearest person in the world; he is seated in his armchair in a soft blue cardigan, by a roaring fire, a cup of tea at his side, a newspaper in his hand.  It is the most prosaic, restful scene he can presently imagine.  He is drawn into it; he approaches his own armchair and sits down across from John without a word. 

John looks up at him.  Penetratingly.  He lowers his newspaper.  Slightly.  For the first time in -- nearly two months, Sherlock realises he cannot read John’s expression, at all. 

He freezes inside.  “Good evening, John,” he says, and clamps his mouth back shut.

“Good evening, Sherlock.”  The smile tightening across John’s face is doing nothing to offset his dark eyes.  “Heard from your brother,” he remarks calmly.  “That you’re coming home.”

Sherlock nods and turns his gaze to the fire.  There is a long silence between the two men, filled with the rustling of John’s paper and the sizzling whistle of pitch burning in a small log.

“ _Housing!”_  John hisses suddenly.

Sherlock starts slightly at that.  “Let me explain,” he states quickly, lacing his hands tightly on his knees.

John folds the newspaper closed, very carefully, as he growls, “Always _disappear_ when and wherever the _fuck_ you want!”

Now Sherlock sees his emotions --  _one of his contrasts.  Like in passion._ “I had no idea how far it had gone,” he says.

“Nope.  You knew, didn’t you.  That it involved -- what did your brother say?  ‘Local linchpins of organised crime’.”

“What did he say?”

“More than you were willing to.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over John.  “What do you imagine of me.”

“Hmmm.  Don’t ask.”

“John.”

“Left me with a friend.”

“Yes.”

“Sightseeing.”

“J --“

“Dining, drinking, taking photos.  Shooting.”

“Listen --”

“Got to know your art teacher.  A little _.”_

"John --"

The next contrast -- in John’s low voice and calm expression -- is also disconcerting; his knuckles are white, bent over the arms of the chair.  “Nice bloke.  Bloody _honest.”_  

“Yes.”

“You’ll explain _why_.  _You lied._  And it will be _brief.”_

Sherlock seems out of breath before he even begins.  “Well.  Mycroft suspects massive corruption in the European Commission with ties to money laundering through building concerns who lobby for particular clauses and would give enormous kickbacks for a five-year program of massive subsidies.  Worth billions of Euro annually.  Liable to be absorbed and laundered by organised crime with far-reaching interests in real estate development, building materials and so on.”

_“So.  Fucking.  What.”_

“John, listen.  Mycroft believes fifteen and eighteen percent of the subsidies would end up outside the EU, in the hands of crime syndicates.  And.  No.  Listen, John.  There were three drafts of proposed legislation.  Each differing very slightly.  A directive to force all the EU member states to create a sizeable number of fully-subsidised flats for the young underemployed and long-term unemployed.  It would never fly, of course.  But it wasn’t supposed to.  The idea was to vet out potential corruption based on anticipatory trading in shares and assets.  A very soft approach.  Would hardly move or vet out a real player.  Pointless. I knew it would be.  No, John.  Listen.  Don’t.”

 _“And?”_ John slaps the arm of the chair.

“When I was ready to come to the negotiating table with the drafts, it turned out that my other conjecture was correct, that a criminal network closely tied to an international property development concern would circumvent their Viennese contact -- the man I was _supposed_ to have met for Mycroft, a lobbyist with influential ties to one of the top EU officials in the European Council.”

“Hmmm.”

“You would know his name immediately.  He’ll be embroiled in a scandal involving photographs of underage prostitutes in a few days.  Well.  He is guilty, but the tolerance for it will come to a halt.  Conveniently.  Unimportant.  He’s an idiot, anyhow.  Won’t even see it coming.”

“Yeah,” John snorts, his hands curling into fists again. “Sure.”

“John, don’t.  I was followed from Hawelka to the hotel.  There were three of them.  Took my phone and cuffed me.”

“Cleaning lady,” John mutters.

“They had just booked a room near ours, across the hall and down one.” ( _The fucking lock in the morning,_ John thinks fleetingly)  “They locked me in the bathroom while they went off to search our room, and the lady from housekeeping came by.  It was all poorly done.  I couldn’t inform you but I wanted to tell you to go back.”

“Go on,” John says icily.

“They escorted me very personally to a completely different meeting spot, at a private club on the outskirts of the city.  They knew exactly who I was.  In fact, one of the participants at the table had gone to trial for a crime that our old friend Moriarity had set up for him, personally.  Cut him loose, ultimately.  But we still have mutual associates.  So we had a nice chat over cards.  Well.  My position was clear enough, to me.”

“Hmmm.”

“It took time, but I led them round to the conclusion that the legislation would make laundering far more Byzantine than it is presently.  But they already knew as much.  It would create a surplus of housing that would affect their long-term profits on current investments and circuits through agricultural and raw materials.  Even if it were legitimate legislation, it would never be passed, it's nobody’s economic interest to do so.  There was no point in trying to sell it anymore.  The lobbyist was found brutally beaten in a park.  He is expected to survive, however.  So.  By then it was buying time while Mycroft set loose his analysts in Brussells.  Their favourite in the Council will fall prey to a spectacular execution via world media, and they’ll find another.  Perhaps they already have.  Certainly they have.  The rest I cannot tell you about now.  John, don’t.  No.  Listen, that is the gist of it.  Don’t.  Stay _here_.”

“Hmmm.  Playing consulting criminal, too.  Fun.” John shakes his head; he has stood up from his armchair.

“Invigorating, admittedly.  Considering that a shot was nearly fired under the table I would say it ended a rousing success.”

 _“_ Listen to yourself!  _Damn it!_ All a game?”

Sherlock stands and moves to block John’s way now, backing toward the door. “No.  Understand.”

“Understood.  I’ll never see it coming.  Move aside, I’m going home.  Good you’re safe.”

Sherlock stares at John, his eyes moving over his face and body.  “Stay.”

“No reason to.”

Sherlock looks as though he’s been speared through the gut.  “There isn’t?” He does not move.

“Why did you lie.”

“John.  I don’t know what to say.”

“Nah, you always know.” John’s nostrils are flaring as he glares at the door and then at Sherlock’s pale face.  “Enough.”

“You’re not leaving.  No.”

“That we’d spend time, just something routine, some negotiating, a nice trip, yeah.  _What the fuck for.”_

Sherlock shakes his head and presses his finger to his lips.  He motions for John to give him his phone; he slips the back plate off, removes the SIM card and shuts it all off.  He tosses it across the room, onto the soft sofa.

John’s eyes widen.  “What --“ he mumbles.

Sherlock takes John by the arm and pulls him closer.  He leans forward and says in his ear, “I was expendable.”

“ _No_.”

“I am.  Always.  You know why,” Sherlock whispers.

“Yeah.  Because your brother considers you a _murderer_.  As if he’s never had a hand in _anyone’s_ _fucking untimely death, suicide, maiming or ruin!”_ John murmurs back, his lips brushing Sherlock’s hair.  The contact makes his knees ache. “Bloody hell.  I would have helped you.  I would have gone.”

“Shh.  No.  Mycroft wouldn’t have it.  But the lobbyist should _never_ have taken that beating.  There were numerous errors.  A leak.”

“Is it over?”

Sherlock nods.

"Is that the truth, Sherlock?" John asks quietly.

"Yes."

"Wouldn't stand it.  Wouldn't."

“Forgive me.”  Sherlock's eyes are glazed.  

As upset as John is, and as insignificant and unneeded as he’s been feeling for the past several days, he swallows over the angry knot in his throat.  “Yeah.”   _You’re mine.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you._   He takes Sherlock in his arms and pulls him close.  And only then does he feel that his friend is cold, and his back and neck are damp.  “What’s happening,” he asks, patting at Sherlock’s neck.  “You’re --“

“Flight.”  Sherlock hugs John’s shoulders and puts his nose against his neck.

“Do you have a headache?”  John asks him.

“Yes.”

“Getting a migraine?”

“No, no.”

“Anything else?”  John pulls back and looks at Sherlock’s eyes again.

“Need to sleep,” Sherlock says. 

“Sandwiches for supper first.  Only two.  Some tea.  All right?”

“Okay.”

“You can go sit.”

“No.  Together.”

“All right.  So wash up.”  John exhales noisily.  “I could just.  Throttle you.  Damn it.”

“You might,” Sherlock mumbles, as he goes to the bathroom to clean his hands.

“I might,” John says after him.  When Sherlock comes back, he says, “Yeah.  Here.  Cut the bread.  And.  Yeah.”  

It is a simple kitchen scene -- _prosaic and restful_ , by all appearances:  Sherlock is slicing a loaf of dark bread and some tomatoes, and John is fussing over tea brewing.  When Sherlock finally gives the slices to John, their fingers brush and John clears his throat quietly.  “Okay,” he says, and puts together two sandwiches for Sherlock, and two for himself.

They eat, mostly in silence, sitting close at the corner of the kitchen table.  Both men are exhausted and further slowed by the weight of their own thoughts.  Afterward they wash up their plates together and get ready for bed, though it is early evening.  Sherlock is still cold; he admits he’d been sick during most of the flight back and his stomach is bothering him; he curls up against John’s warm back, burying his nose in his nape.  After some time, he kisses it.  John turns over and their eyes meet in the poor light; John catches Sherlock’s cheek in his hand and brushes his thumb over that beautiful mouth, which is now pressed in a line.  “Missed you so much,” John says, quietly. “All the time.  Come here.  What would I ever do.”

Sherlock shakes his head and returns as many of John’s soft kisses as he can, before his nose is too blocked and John realises how overwhelmed his friend is, and stops.  “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.  Sleep, love.  We’re all right.  We are.  Know how much I love you?” 

Sherlock nods.


	60. Endearments

Once John is certain that Sherlock is well asleep, he crawls slowly out of his arms and goes back to the living room to read, watch the fire and think.  He is still too wound up to rest, for now.  _Mine.  Expendable.  My dearest treasure.  Not one for endearments.  Presence of mind.  Would I have the presence of mind.  Oh shit.  Forgot._ He checks the time. _Might still be up._  John slips back into the bedroom for his phone.  Sherlock groans quietly and turns over onto his stomach; John bends over him and pets his head. 

                _Alex, Sherlock is back in London now.  Thank you very much again for all your help.  John_

_OK, thank God.  You’re always welcome, John.  All the best, Alex N._

_Not mousey._

***

John and Sherlock eat a small, quiet breakfast.  They are both dressed to go out.  John is clearing away their dishes and has started making conversation.  Sherlock is following him with his eyes from across the table, where he is standing with a mug of tea and heather honey in his hand.  Their conversation has drifted gradually toward Vienna, at least by proxy.

“Alex is quite ill,” John remarks.

“He is.  When I was cross-examining him at the cafe in Knightsbridge, Jens caught him or he’d have hit his head on the wall,” Sherlock says flatly.

“Yeah.  And gone into arrhythmia.”

“I regret it.”

“I know.  I see what you’re trying to do for him.”  John clears his throat.  “He said you were in each other’s arms.”

“We were.”

John is rinsing a plate and setting it on the countertop.  He can’t find a dry dishcloth.  He turns and looks pointedly at Sherlock. “You’re _mine_ ,” he mutters.

“Alex knew that before you did.  John,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t have an answer for that; the more he thinks it through, the less he finds he has to say about it.  “So.  The soldiers that I saw at the _Glen Burns_.  How did you get them on the wall?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen for a microsecond.  John wonders when and if he’d planned to admit to them.  “I’ve been there numerous times.  Mycroft frequented it in the years before he started the Diogenes Club.  In the summer I was studying parts of the collection with Jens, as you know.”

“So Lawrence helped you?”

“No, a cleaner.  Generally the only people worth knowing in any institution.”

“Starting to notice that.  But you didn’t know I would see it, that day.”

“Obviously, Lawrence wouldn’t let you stay while we were discussing state business.”

“You know what’s there on the stairs now?  An Egyptian chariot full of topless girls and locusts pulling the bloody thing.”

Sherlock snorts.  “Well.  One of the crudest things I’ve ever done.”

“Not crude in the least.  What happened to it?”

“It’s on the wall upstairs, in your room, over your bed.”

“Here, upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Ha.  I guess my next question is who was posing for you.”

“Tell me about your time with Rainer.”

“Changing the subject to distract me.”

“No.  To distract myself.”

“I want to go look at it.”

“The door is locked.”

“Open it.  Why not.  Get the key.”

Sherlock sighs and goes to the bedroom; he returns with a key on a silver ring, which he holds out to John.

“Lead the way,” John says.

“No,” Sherlock says, as his eyes flick over John’s face.  “It’s yours.”

John wants to avoid further discussion, so he takes the key and grabs Sherlock by the hand.  “Let’s go have a look at it,” he says, and leads Sherlock upstairs with him.  It has been a long time (he doesn’t want to remember it all exactly; he sets his teeth at the very idea-of-the-memory of moving out -- the move he’d made once he had been able to state: _Sherlock is gone, there is no place for me here; I will go fucking insane if I have to spend another night here_ ).  Close to five years have passed since.  He stuffs the key into the lock and wiggles it.  It doesn’t want to budge.  He tries again.  _Stubborn piece of crap, always was_.  He jiggles the key to the left a bit.  It clicks open.  He switches on the light and peers in.   _A mere vessel_ , Sherlock might call it, for those times, which John holds very dear.  _Bloody sentiment._ John clears his throat.  His bed -- is made.  The desk, lamp, floor lamp, bedside table, wardrobe, chair, and rug are all the same.  The window is covered.  The only thing that indicates that he had ever been in it before is a gray and white checked shirt of his, ironed and folded, on the desk.  “That’s my shirt,” he states dumbly.  “Thought -- M -- it had got wrecked in the wash.  You nicked my shirt?”

“Confiscated it.”  Sherlock does not look at all repentant. 

John smirks; he wouldn’t be above nicking some of Sherlock’s clothes but chooses not to go into it.  “Oh, there.”  He approaches the drawing of the soldiers, which is rimmed in a thin, dark wooden frame.  He leans over the bed on one knee and pulls it off the wall.  “This is amazing,” he says, looking at it carefully.  “I don’t think anyone -- okay, that goes without saying, yeah.  Just.  Amazing.  You’re talented.”  Sherlock  is standing -- it would seem expectantly -- in the doorway.  John isn’t sure what he is waiting for; he rarely can guess at times like these.  “Beautiful,” he adds, and hangs the drawing back on the wall.  Sherlock watches him without a word (he hadn’t wanted to say, _Please don’t take that ‘home’ with you._   It appears he won’t have to, however). 

“So.  Rainer,” John says, changing the subject ( _yet again -- uneasy_ , thinks Sherlock) as he moves to walk out of the room.  He turns the light off and walks past his friend.  “He’s good fun.  Knowledgeable.”  John goes to lock the door but changes his mind; he shoves the key in his pocket.

“One of the top three ballistics experts on the Continent, certainly,” Sherlock remarks, as they descend the stairs and enter the living room.  “The only one who has seen modern warfare in recent years.  The others are tied mainly to physics and police work.”

“He served?  Where?  Austria isn’t in NATO --”

“An observer.” 

John nods and bites the inside of his cheek. 

“You got on.  Shooting,” Sherlock prompts him.

“Yeah, yeah,” John answers.  “He said he agreed with my husband that I’m a good shot.”

“Ah.  I referred to you as _Mann_ , in the German.  One’s man, one’s husband.  An ambiguity,” Sherlock says, though his attempt at flippancy comes a half-second too late.    

“One’s man is going to Passau?” John watches Sherlock’s continued discomfort.  He doesn’t realise how much his responses matter.

“Well. I don’t imagine this is a good time to ask one’s man to take a trip abroad,” Sherlock says.

“Depends what you are planning to do there.  With him,” John replies.

“Rainer and I plan to present papers during the same session at a forensics conference.”

“Hmm.”

“Two perspectives on fatal wounds to the head from ricochets.  Mine concerns angles and velocity, and his materials and error factors.  Still working on it but the abstracts have been accepted.  Mmm.  Consider coming.  What else?”

“Wow.  All right.  Well, if I ever have four thousand quid to spare, I’m buying an eighteenth-century musket with a blunderbuss barrel.  The ones with brass fittings.  The flint-locks were all fantastic.  Might get myself a Brown Bess, too.  Yeah.  Sparks flying like mad everywhere, powder in your nose and skin afterward.  It was amazing.  Won’t come out of my shirt.  It was.  Yeah.  One of the best times I’ve had.  In ages.  Thanks for arranging that.”

John is standing several feet in front of Sherlock, with his hands behind his waist.

“Okay,” Sherlock answers.

“Sherlock, uhm.”

“Yes.”

“Going out, now.  Got things to do.”   _Talking to Paul.  Arsehole.  Wool jumper.  Choose something.  Whatever._   _Haircut.  Dentist_.   “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock is receding inside.  He would never admit it, but it feels nice when John calls him _love_ \-- and its absence this morning, paired with John’s _space,_ is glaring.  Clearly, John is still trying to get over his disappointment over being left in Vienna.  Sherlock has his own to surmount and progress on that is -- _negligible, within the range of statistical error_.  _Act, for God’s sake.  When you are gone, I can hardly breathe, John._  “I won’t sleep well,” he says.  Because it is true. 

John smiles a little and puts his hand out.  “Me neither.  Come,” he says.  He hugs Sherlock tightly.  “Need to go talk about my hours tonight.”

“What about them.” Sherlock rubs his nose in John’s hair.

“My work doesn’t make a lot of sense.  Random.  I’ve been wanting to change things for about six months now.” John sighs.  “And I’m talking to Paul.  Getting that sorted.”

“Mmm.”

“Doesn’t want to talk.  Neither do I.  A promising start.”

“Mhm.”

“Need to do a couple of things.  So I won’t be back by.  You?” John can’t bring himself to let go.

“Out this afternoon.  I’ll have an abstract for you to read.  The maximum allowance is twenty-five hundred words.”

“All right.  Wh --”

Sherlock has taken John’s chin in his hand and for a moment neither of them move or breathe; they share a very slow, intense kiss that softens and deepens as Sherlock -- not John, this time -- sighs into it, anxiously and immoderately.  John has tightened his grip on his back.  Sherlock doesn’t know what to say when it ends.  _Stay here.  Though you are about to leave for the day_.  It has always been his weakness -- that the borders of his imagination are thick, and deep, when it matters most, where they should be highly permeable -- or erased completely.  Their bulk has become like habit itself.  What counts is stopped, like a breath caught in the throat (he dislikes that reflex in himself) for a second too long.   _Always._   _Tell him.  Tell him._  Breaking their kiss, he says, “Remember how much I love you.  All day, this evening, and all night.  Until I see you again and can tell you.  Again.”

John melts.  “I will, love.”  He kisses Sherlock again and runs a thumb near his lips.  “Wouldn’t get by,” he says, pulling away and nodding, mostly to himself (an agreement with his own body to calm down).  His heart is pounding.  Their next kisses are very warm, chaotic, and difficult to consider leaving behind; they are being pulled back into each other now.  But John needs to go.  Needs to.   _Beautiful, loving creature._   “Come back here, love.  One more.  Hmmm.” 

***

John meets Paul.  He goes and has half an inch cropped from his hair (looks good).  He stands in front of a mirrored column in a shop and holds a few jumpers up to his chest and finally decides he’ll consult an expert instead of kidding himself that he knows which shade of heather gray is best.  He has his teeth cleaned.  He goes home, where he paces a bit and reads; he is on call from ten in the evening.  Later that night there is a brawl after a rugby game; John stitches eyebrows, foreheads and cheekbones, sets a forearm in plaster, bandages ribs.  Once he is back at his flat he sleeps very badly and wakes from indistinct nightmares about bleeding out; when his eyes are fully open he cannot recall whether it had been his own bleeding or Sherlock’s.  He stares at his reflection in the dark wardrobe mirror until he drifts off.  He sleeps in late, until nearly 10 a.m., when he is roused by the sound of a text.

_Congrats or Caveats ?  WTF John you’re all over Twitter.  L8rz Marv_

_We sure hope the Hat-Man and his blogger aren’t as on-again-off-again  as another “item”!  Our sources claim the ring spotted on high-flying detective Sherlock Holmes (42) could only have been from wingman Dr. John Watson (45)._

_It’s platinum!  Read more online!  Links to platinum engagement bands! Wow her for less!_

_The puzzling case of the vanishing ring!  Solve it, Mr. Holmes!_

_In photos:  Detective Sherlock Holmes (42) wearing a new ring while shopping downtown.  Wedding bells?  That’s the sound of hearts breaking ‘round England!_

“Oh, Christ,” John mumbles, and tosses his phone down on the bed.   _That’s the sound of my hair graying --_

He rubs his face and gets up to make himself some tea.  He starts fishing around in his kitchen for something that can be construed as breakfast-worthy.  He is forced to admit to himself that he...will starve this morning.   _In my own bloody flat._   He growls and shuts his cupboard. 

He goes for a wash and his mind wanders as he scrubs himself down; his conversation with Paul the day before is still grating.  _(“Look, I’m no homophobe.  I’ve got lesbian patients....One hell of a mid-life crisis, John.  Most of us just buy a sodding motorbike.”)_ With Paul out, the rest of them need to think of a way to bring in at least one more doctor, on contract, to round out their services; Will is concerned.  It dawns on John that Sherlock’s budding contacts in the cardiology circle might be useful there.  He’ll ask -- when he is more conscious.  He soaps the backs of his arms and hands.  _Ring?  For a case.  Whatever it was, it’s married us for at least the next bloody week in the papers -- should I even bother to ask, one’s-man-in-the-German?_


	61. Pleated wool

When John comes back into his flat from the bathroom, he has a text.

_Brunch?  SH_

John’s stomach nearly growls in response.

_Leaving in 10, love_

John pulls out a backpack and slips the bottle of Riesling into it, along with a stack of notebooks he'd found that include details and his remarks about crimes and cases past; he tucks Alex’s sketches (of himself and the nervy, well-dressed man from the Hawelka Cafe, in Vienna) into one of them, to show Sherlock later on.

“What is this world coming to?” John asks, when he enters the kitchen at Baker Street.  “Running about on empty and someone has to feed me up.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Sherlock replies, plunking a plate with sandwiches and a steaming mug of tea on the table while John goes to wash his hands.  When he comes back he sighs, “Good morning.” He takes Sherlock’s cheek in his hand and kisses him several times.  “I remembered.”

“I love you, John.”

“Hmm, I love you, too.  Thank you, looks good.”  He pulls out a chair and sits down.  “Aren’t you eating?”

“No.”  Sherlock watches him for a moment and puts his hands on his hips and taps at them with his fingertips restlessly.  “Well.  A street fight among rugby fans, not far from the hospital.”

“Yeah.  Brawling after the game last night, were you?” John comments.

Sherlock doesn’t smile.  “There are accusations in the press this morning that police intervention came too late.  Any serious internal injuries that you saw?”

“Not that I know of, no.  Fractures at most.  Ribs on one, but there was no puncturing.  Here, I forgot,” John says, digging the key to the upstairs room out of his jeans pocket.  Sherlock glances at it and then takes it and tosses it on the table top. 

“One of those rugby fans died in the night, at home,” he says.

“Oh, God.  One we treated and released?” John asks.

“We don’t have all the data.  Most likely he went home without treatment.  Too early to say.  They’ve been reviewing footage this morning.”

“I’d like to know if any of us are going to get hit with a malpractice suit, yeah?”

“Understandable.”

“Hmm.  I brought those older case notes.”  John reaches down into his backpack and pulls out six spiral-bound notebooks of various sizes.  He sets them on the tabletop between them.  “A mess but maybe there’s something useful.”

“Handwritten.”

“Easier than typing.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but refrains from comment.  _Hits the space bar with his thumb now instead of his index finger -- he has improved, after all._ He picks one up and opens it in several places at random; the first words his eyes fall on are ‘ _sodding_ ’, _‘dickhead!!!’ and ‘implement’_.  He will spend some time with them later, he decides.  He cannot focus now.

“Have I ever told you that your sandwiches are fantastic?” John remarks, licking his finger.

“Thank you.”  _Beautiful man_.

“Is this _basil?”_

“Yes, it is.”  Sherlock’s phone is buzzing in front of him on the table.  He scoops it up and wanders toward one of the living room windows.  “Yes, what did you find,” he says, pacing.  “Mmm.  Yes.  Oh.  Mmhmm.  Mm.  Excellent.  On our way.”

John’s mouth is full and he shrugs animatedly.

“Eat,” Sherlock says, hanging up.  “Lestrade just wants to show me some photographs.  The dead rugby fan’s injuries had _not_ been treated.  He went home straight away and died in his bed.”

“Okay.  Though not at all okay that he’s gone off and died, poor sod,” John says, gulping a bite.  “Any milk?” he mumbles, getting up to go to the fridge.  “Saving my bloody life this morning, love,” he says, retrieving a mostly-full quart.  “Mm.  You know, some of the injuries looked like they’d been caused by something more than fists.  Like maybe sticks or bats.  They were bashed up.  Well, they’ll have the films, yeah?”

Sherlock is staring down at the street, absorbed in thought. 

***

John and Sherlock have taken a cab to Oxford Circus and are walking quickly through a driving rainstorm toward a clothing shop; John explains against the wind and his upturned collar that he wants a blazer and a cardigan, or maybe just a jumper.  _Something bloody warm_ , in any case. 

John is in an excellent mood after standing by and watching his man -- bent temptingly over Lestrade’s desk, studying photographs -- overturning most of the DI’s conceptions about an apparent suicide that had taken place the day before, involving a fall and the gruesome impaling of a housekeeper from the top floor of a Victorian-era townhouse.  _(“Look at her face and the position of the body.  She didn’t struggle as she fell, that’s why the neighbour thought it was suicide -- ‘a resigned and peaceful fall’, he said.  A romantic misconception -- a passive drop.  Even determined suicides might reflexively struggle and try to right themselves as they fall.  And anyhow, would she really have chosen to fall so serenely four floors, directly onto decorative iron fencing?  She fell out of the window herself, but she lost consciousness first.  Someone expected her to fall.  Counted on it.  Look!  She’d just eaten breakfast with the wife.  Easiest thing in the world to slip her husband’s medications into her rival’s porridge.  Four hundred milligrams would have done the trick, right, John?  Yes.  Was the rest of the room clean, or did she start from washing those charming old casement windows?  What do you mean you didn’t notice!  Of course the room would still be dusty.  Why didn’t you call me!  Who cares what ‘Allen’ thinks.  Look.  Didn’t it strike any of you as odd that a woman would insist on having her windows washed when it is about to pour?  You said it happened before nine?  The wife told her to start on the windows, left the house, and went to work.  If she hadn’t succeeded yesterday, she’d have tried again --“)_

Even the idea of buying clothes seems more acceptable than usual, though John has his doubts about the wisdom of doing any sort of shopping with a man whose trousers  cost more than what John has on his entire body, the aging Nokia in his jacket pocket included.  Today’s pair (as he’d had time to note that morning) is a work of art on this burning, edgy...work of nature, who is even now making John’s heart race.  And not just because of the styrofoam-scented coffee that Lestrade had given them at the Yard.  He sighs and glances about them at the racks and a cluster of angular mannequins posed (poised?) melodramatically, as though they were in their death throes.  _Well, they are missing their heads._ He imagines it as their response to the instrumental tune playing in the speakers overhead ( _from ‘Dirty Dancing’, title unknown -- deleting does work, good idea, love_ ) in strings, plus one delinquent saxophone. _A beheading, with that shit playing --_   He stifles a giggle.  _Bloody coffee._   The music is also providing an absurd contrast to his view of Sherlock, who is standing stock-straight nearby and has just extracted several jumpers from stacks of folded wares in a few precise, rapid movements.  “All tolerable,” he says, turning to John.  He holds up a light blue cardigan.  “Cashmere blend.  Chickory blue, in fact.  The lighting is deceptive.”

John shakes his head.  “Impractical.”  He’s begun sizing up the floor-length draped curtains in the dressing area.  One of them has been pulled back; each changing area, he notes, is separated by fabric curtains that have canvas ties wrapped around metal, structural pipes.  John does love to untie knots, particularly those which are begging to be breached, and whenever Sherlock is to be freed from behind one of them.  _And sucked off.  Dressing room, dressing gown, same difference -- hmm -- take that down and --_

“Warm olive heather.  A Shetland.  Or.  The red argyle blocking on this nutrea gray one is potentially divisive but you’d likely pull it off.”

“Nah, I’d let you pull it off,” John says, under his breath.  “Drive me _crazy_.”

John’s ears have just turned pink, and Sherlock is left trying to work out what erotic potential John sees in woolens that he does not.  He decides to push John toward a decision so they can go home, where he might explore that.  He pulls out a dark blue boiled merino with a trim, slightly asymmetrical shawl collar and sliced horn buttons.  He is comparing it to a charcoal gray one of a similar style.  “John, these --“

“I wonder why you chose this shop, Sherlock?” John asks quietly.

“Well. It has unpretentious, durable and attractive knitwear.  Versatile, without being neutral in the least,” Sherlock says, holding out another candidate.

 _“Heh.”_   John’s face has suddenly split into a grin.  “Trousers,” he says, with a small cough. “You could use some woolen trousers.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s fall.  Cold knees.  Autumn rains.  Oh, look.  Pleated wool.”  John reaches out and plucks a pair from a rack nearby.

“Pleated!”  Sherlock glances at the hang tags.  “ _Domestic home-spun no-iron blend_.  Are you mad?”

“Roomy where it counts.  Try on a few.  Brown, beige, navy, oh.  There.  A webbed belt.  Matches everything.”

“I’m _not_ planning undercover work at a revenue and customs office,” Sherlock hisses. 

“You’ll try them _all_ on,” John says, licking his lips. 

“Appalling texture.”  Sherlock is looking at the tags.  “This is _not_ my size.”

“Try them, and we’ll check.  Your size.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to John’s at that.  “Oh.”

“Driving me _insane_ at the Yard.”

“John --“

“In there.  Go on.” John glances over at the dressing rooms.

Sherlock has taken in their structure and potential in a second.  “We’ll go home.”

“Hmmm.  You want it.”

“Bakerloo Line by Tube, six minutes, plus walks.”

“Now.”  John takes several pairs of trousers and shoves them at Sherlock.  “My love.”

“Mmm --”

“You start, I finish.  Go on.  Dressing room.”

“They’ll put me off.”  Sherlock mumbles, holding up a few items as if they were spoiled fish on hangers; he enters one of the changing spaces with five pairs of trousers; John stands out in front with his pink ears.  “Try something else.  Hmmm.  Not quite there?” (“John --“)  “Something for -- _that Wagner opera?_ “  ( _Sigh_.)  “Bring you a few more.”  Once he has switched out four pairs for Sherlock, he smiles virtuously at a matronly shop assistant, who is pacing about with a measuring tape slung round her shapeless shoulders, humming along as music oozes from a ceiling panel overhead; he slips into the next changing space with several random shirts.  He strips off to the waist and pulls open one of the ties that is holding up the material divider between him and Sherlock.  His friend is suffering and leans down to kiss John’s chest and shoulder.  “You know you want it,” John whispers into his ear and puts his hand into Sherlock’s pants.  “You do.  Wanted it at the Yard.”  Sherlock nods.  “So did I.”  He pushes his tongue against Sherlock’s lips and bites them a little.  “Get you off hard.”  Sherlock represses a groan.  John’s mouth is very warm inside and his lips --   _John.  On his knees.  Beautiful.  Mad.  Man.  Mine._  “J--“ It has been a few days and the pressure feels fantastic. Already.  Sherlock closes his hand over his mouth -- _Not a sound_ \-- _cannot_ \-- he is nervous and very excited; he bites his tongue and shuts his eyes.  He feels how John wraps his arms around his thighs and squeezes his arse as he takes half of his cock into his mouth.  He wonders if John can feel that his knees are unsteady.  He is circling him with his tongue and sucking him rhythmically -- _no -- he has broken his tempo and has -- slowed  -- down._   Each suck is longer now; his tongue less hurried.  _Relentless.  Mad.  Perfect.  Now faster.  Rolling his tongue, catching the glans in a delicious -- tap; he -- teases me -- he is -- ruthless -- bad -- bad, bad soldier.  Like that, perfect -- perfect.  He is brilliant.  Loves me.  Loves me.  Controlled brushes of his tongue and lips.  Perfect for me.  Perfect.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  You love me --_   Sherlock strokes John’s hair; he opens his eyes.  _Warn him -- should --_ John still has one arm wrapped around Sherlock’s legs and has reached up for the hand that is running over his hair; Sherlock’s fingers lace into his and as they tense he feels his friend losing control -- his favourite moment of all -- _so fucking hot_.  John holds him hard as that beautiful body yields, falling slightly forward, almost choking him;  Sherlock’s cock throbs against John’s lips and along his tongue.   _Done.  Everything is white.  Behind the eyes.  I love you, I love you, you love me._   John catches his breath.  He stands and kisses Sherlock’s throat.  “You are so hot,” he whispers.  “Wanted that, didn’t you.”  He is closing Sherlock’s trousers.   He is gentle, his hands quick.  He brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s arse again.  “Want you.  _Tonight_ , not here.  You looked worried.”  He smiles almost sweetly, though his eyes are dark and hungry.  “I'll have something for you. For us.”  He kisses Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock isn’t in any state to attempt a deduction about what it could be so he nods dimly and tucks in his shirt with his trembling hands.  John has slipped away from him.  He steps back and ties the divider back up to the pipe.   From the sound of it, he has popped gum ( _no, a pastille_ ) in his mouth and is pulling on a shirt with tags dangling and rustling at the wrist.  Sherlock hangs a pair of bag-like, soil-brown boiled wool trousers on the bar in front of him and snickers at them, and at himself.  _Wonders never cease.  They didn’t put me off.  Born for sex in public after all?_  He hears John flagging down the shop assistant:  “ _None_ of these shirts seem to fit a thirty-three arm.”

Now Sherlock has starting laughing openly; John turns toward the curtain.  “Hey, in there, some of us have a shorter reach, you know.”  In response, he hears a snort and the clanking of several metal hangers.  Sherlock is nearly ready to come back out.  “It’s either that or altering _every_ sleeve on _every_ shirt I buy,” John says.  The shop assistant nods sympathetically and says she’ll be glad to go find him a smaller size, for which he thanks her kindly.


	62. Austrian wine

“He drew two pictures.  Look.” John has pulled Alex’s sketches out of one of the old notebooks he’d brought with him.

“Yes.  Our friend from the _Hawelka_.  Not particularly skilled with cuffs.  I’d have got away if it hadn’t been for the third fellow.  Oh,” Sherlock says, smiling down at John’s portrait.  He turns it to the side, where Alex had written, in small, blocky letters, _Dr. J.W. thinking of S.H. from A.N._   “Perfect.” Sherlock takes John by the shoulder.  “The sketch is also very good.”

“So, I told you earlier.  I have something nice for you.  For us.” 

Sherlock looks at John’s pink ears apprehensively.  “What is it?”   _Nnngh._

“The wine.  The Austrian one, you know.”

“You mean, the 2009 _Nikolaihof_ Riesling?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Brilliant.” _That it isn’t -- something else._

“Yup.”

“Thank you, John.”

After they’ve had a simple but satisfying dinner (baked potatoes, poached eggs and salad, which they’d made together as they’d sipped a bit of wine), John lights a fire for them.  The evening is cold and rain pelts the windows loudly. 

John tells Sherlock about his conversation with Paul and his thoughts about bringing a cardiologist into their plans.  Sherlock tells him to consider making their clinic an open showroom for a Swiss firm he’s found which would bring guided groups of clients to see the furnishings and equipment in use, in exchange for highly preferential leasing options.  John likes the idea very much and is touched that Sherlock is so willing to help him chase his dreams.  Again.  Their feet are outstretched and their toes brush as they talk; neither man had slept much the night before and the subtle vintage seeps easily into their tired nerves, softening the corners of their mouths and rounding off their gestures. 

John is on his third glass of wine and Sherlock on his fourth when they decide to leave the low burning fire and take everything with them to bed.  The bottle John had got in Austria is now empty; Sherlock has since brought out another -- a holiday gift from a client that he’d never got around to opening.  Once under the blankets, John sits with Sherlock in the crook of his arm, against the pillows.  John’s fingers are circling over Sherlock’s collarbone and shoulder as he nurses his wine in his other hand.

“Tell me a story,” Sherlock says.

John smiles.  “Hmm.  We’re in a dressing room where you’re trying on trousers and I can’t help myself,” he says, reflectively.  “ _Nah_ , you’ll think it’s just one of my stories.” (Sherlock chuckles.  _Mad._ )  “I’ll never be able to wear that jumper from there without -- yeah.  You know?  You _know_ ,” John giggles.  He is warm around the lips and feels his eyes getting heavier.  “Every time I wear it.  Ha.  It can be a code.  Sweater with horn buttons, Sherlock, prepare to die.  A _very_ pleasant death.  Yeah.  So, a story, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Where.  You’re the central character.  Our protagonist.  Not agonist.  That’s your area, love.  What.  Was that actually funny?”   

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock informs him, and bursts out laughing, quite randomly.

“You’re.  I don’t even know if I’ve told you how it’s.  Well.  Changed everything.  Our story changed, because you told me what you felt,” John says.  “More of a beginning than a story.  Well, I didn’t know at the start if I would be able to give you.  What you need.  I think I’m.  Uhm.”

“Perfect!”

“Not the word, no.  Mildly pissed.”

“Loyal, kind and erotic,” Sherlock says, over him.

“I’ll take those, yeah.  Do I give you what you need?  Real question now.”

“I could ask _you_ that.”

“I’m asking _you_.”

“I’m not a _woman_.”

“No.  Oh, no, you are not.”

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock says, leaning over and rubbing his lips against John’s chin and neck.  “Mmm.  You do.  The mind wanders.”

“How does it wander.  You could tell me a story about how your mind wanders.  What you think about.”

“I can’t tell stories like yours.  Like a story where we are having sex in -- a -- mmm.  Gondola.”

“A gondola.”  John nods.  “That -- yeah.  Who’s the gondolier, though.  Would we drift around?  Or is he watching us taking turns _fucking_  like mad.  Sorry, but.   _Like mad.”_

“No.  I would need two antiemetics at least, in fact.  Yes.”

“That’s what you say.  _Can’t_ tell stories.  Nor can you cook, supposedly.  My love.”

“Mmm.  How much verisimilitude would it need to include.  Mmm, rhymes.”

John shrugs and reaches for the wine bottle.  “As much as you need and no more.  Have some more wine.”  _And you’ll be mine -- rhymes, too._

“An interesting principle.  Applying _ex parsimoniae_ to sexual fantasy.  I assume that’s what you.  Have in mind.  Fantasy.”

“No Latin in bed.  There should be a rule,” John replies.

“I have to think.  Of a story.  I shouldn’t -- drink.”

“No, you shouldn’t.  Cheers.”

Their glasses have made a strident _clack_ and Sherlock is now examining the rim of his own, perhaps for cracks or chipping.  “Cheers,” he answers with a significant delay.  “The Austrian bottle set you back, John.”

“And...what do I work for?” John asks, smiling.  “Love you.”

“We might have kept some.  For -- breakfast.”

“Hmm.  Yeah.  You know, in Vienna.  Love, I forgot, I didn’t tell you.” John furrows his brows and nods.

The word _Vienna_ has knocked Sherlock back into focus; now he is no longer studying the curvature of his glass and the cling of the alcohol to its sides.  “Mmm?”  He turns and looks at John’s face.

“When we were in Vienna, I ate breakfast at the hotel with the family with that black dog.  With the girls.  The same ones.  _Those_ ones.  The mother took photos of Alex and me in front of a museum.”

“Oh.  Really?”

“Yeah.  Weird.  Or not weird.  Just.  Brought everything back to my mind, seeing them.”

“Yes.  Of course.”

“And I remembered you, there.  How you looked by the sea.”

“What did you -- remember.”

“How you looked.  By the sea.”

“How did I look.” 

“How, uhm.  Nobody ever looked.  At me, like that.” _Or like you are, now._

“Fools,” Sherlock slurs.

“No, just.  Either feel something or they don’t.”

Sherlock is about to explain just how _inordinately stupid_ people would have to be if they don’t care for John, yet he is certain he would never share him, to begin with.  In the disorder of these thoughts he grasps John’s shoulder and kisses him almost angrily, and for a few long moments he feels a nebulous, faceless jealousy toward -- nearly everything.  His glass spills over onto their thighs.

“You should put it down,” John reminds him.

“Mmm, yes.” 

“Are you okay?”  John winces as Sherlock drains his glass in one gulp and sets it aside much too carefully, on the bedside table. 

“Very okay.”  _No._ “But people are such _idiots_ , John!”

“Shhhh, love, don’t get worked up, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“We’re all right, yeah?” John rubs a thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone.  “I want another kiss.  That was hot, that, before.”

“Okay.  Mmmm.”

“Do you have any idea?  Any?  What it’s like to love such an amazing person?” John asks, his tongue slightly slower than his thoughts.

Sherlock nods and says deliberately,  “Yes, I know very well what that is like.”

“Hmmm, you’re so nice.”

“I’m not.  John.”

“Oh, you are.  Undress me tonight?” John asks.  “Want to take off my -- take, unbutton -- this?”

Sherlock looks obliging, even if it comes with a delay of just over two seconds.  “Mmhmm.”

“Go on.” John sits up straight so Sherlock can unbutton his clothes.  In a moment he remembers to put aside his glass.

“I’ve been drinking,” Sherlock remarks.  His fingers are still quick though his eyes are defocused and soft.  “There.” He takes off John’s shirt carefully and smiles, as he says, “You’ll always be attractive.  It’s easy to picture how you’ll be.”

“Well on my way, yeah.”

“No.  No, I don’t mean that.  I mean I would want to _see_ it.”

“Nice of you, love,” John says.

“No, I mean, to be there to see you, as you will be then.  I don’t think I expressed all of that properly.  Did I say it?  Mmm --”

“No, you’re all right.  It’s all right.”

“You’re very sexy and I am _certain_ you will be later in your life, too,” Sherlock says, emphatically, opening John's jeans.

“Hmmm.  Thank you.” John has the impression that he might be flushed in the cheeks, but he isn’t sure, now.

“I shouldn’t drink.” Sherlock tells him.

"Undress for me, I love to watch you."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah.  Can you?"  John and Sherlock stare at each other as Sherlock takes off his clothes.  John smiles at him.  "You look so good," he says.  "Hmmm.  Sherlock, I want to tell you something.  You know?  Uhm.”

“What is it.  John.”  Sherlock has just removed his pants and John reaches out to trace a trail down his stomach.

“They’re writing again.  In the press.  Photos of you, wearing a ring.”

“Yes.”

“You know?  They think I gave you -- it.  That ring.”

“Gabe asked me where it was, at the Yard this morning.”  Sherlock smiles to himself.  ( _I’d say you’re in trouble, mate,_ Lestrade had said quietly, shaking his head.)

 _Gabe?  Greg --_   “I don’t mind if you want to --”

“It’s ruined,” Sherlock says, over John.  “A jeweller cut it off.”

“Oh, God.”

Sherlock starts gesturing and explaining, “He slipped a U-shaped trough _under_ the band, and rolled a round blade _into_ it.  The band was cut in _seconds_.”

“Right.”

“Mmmm.  He had a price list that included ring cutting, so apparently people -- John, you know?  They have rings stuck on their fingers _frequently enough_ to justify the purchase of a specialised saw!  It’s.  Very amusing.”

“Yeah.” John shakes his head.

“So,” Sherlock says.  “It was.  No, not.  No.” He waves indistinctly.  “Not gold.”

“You’re -- I’d like to.  Come here.”

“Mmmm?”

“I don’t mind that you had it.”

“Okay.”

“You know what you are to me.  How dear you are to me.”

“Yes.”

John’s lips are roving over Sherlock’s cheek and ear.  “We should just.”  ( _Cheekbones, chin._ )  “Stay in bed and.  Kiss for hours.”  ( _Along the jawline and neck; tonguing the jugular._ )  “Stay in and kiss, all day.  For -- ever.”  ( _Lips, on lips, lightly, mid-word._ )  “All the time.  Why don’t we do that.”

“Should.  Of course we should.”

“About -- what I need.  And you.  You know.  From before.”

“Yes?”

“Tell you something.  Listen, love.”

“Yes.  What is it.”

“No woman would _ever_ get me off as hard as you.”

“She wouldn’t?”

“Both.  Both ways, you know.  You’re so good.”

“Do you think so?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, you are.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah?”

“Obviously.”

“Want you even now.  Want to be inside of you.  Hold you.”

“Mmmm.  John.”

“I’m.  What do they put in, you know, in Austrian wine.  God, I want you, so bad.”

“S -- ulphides?”

“Need you.  Give it to me, could you -- please -- it’s over there.  Somewhere.  Yeah.  That, yeah.  Thank you, beautiful.”

“Okay.” Sherlock turns and kisses him so suddenly that John almost bites him. 

“Finger you.  Just a little.  Can I?  Come, love.  Come here.  Tell me how you really like it.”

“You know.  Always know what to do,” Sherlock says.  John sees that Sherlock is staring at his hands.

“You can tell me, too,” John says, moving closer and kissing Sherlock’s lower lip gently.

“Everything.  Just slowly.”

“Slowly and...what else.  What do you like?”

“And talk to me.”

“You don’t mind?  Won’t put you off if I talk to you?” John asks.  "Relax --"

“No.  It doesn’t anymore.  Oh, hnnn --”

“Oh, see.  There.  Feels good.  I know.  You drive me _mad_  when you.  God, it’s.  Tight.  Give me a kiss.”

“You’re -- made for.  Me.  Slowly, John.”

“Oh, God, you feel.  Where, love.  _There_ , hmmm.  There, now.  Like that?  Oh, you do, beautiful.  You like it.  Love, I want to tell you something.”

_“Hnnnnngh --“_

“I think about it.  Feels so good, doesn’t it.”

“Slowly -- what is -- it.”

“Know what I think about when I kissed you, now?  Just.”

“What is it.”

“Give me another kiss and I’ll tell you.  Hmmm, you’re so relaxed, love.  You want me, too.”

“Mmmmhm.”

“It’s how good it is.  Sherlock.  I mean, that’s what I think.“

“When -- ?  Mmmm...more.  John.“

“That I -- uhm.  When?  When I kiss you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

“I won’t.  _Anyone_ else.  Want anyone else,” John says, running his tongue up and down Sherlock’s neck as he pushes his fingers gently into him.  

“Nnnno.”  

“No.  _Never_.  It has to be _you_.  Only you, or I’ll.  Hmm.”  _Control this.  Slowly.  Don’t._   “Look.  Only you.” 

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock groans, after a moment.  “John.”

“If I can make you happy.  I want that for you.”

“Because -- you love me.”

“Yeah.” 

_Tell him.  Tell him --_

“Can I -- love, I want you.” 

“Slow -- ly.”

John feels a tremour in his friend’s thighs as the very tip of his cock sinks into him.  “Just a little.  There.  Only a little.  You’re just.  Oh, God.  Hold me with your.  Legs.  Yeah -- oh, good.  Love, open your eyes.  Look at me.  Tell me when to stop, if you need to, okay?  Promise.  Can’t hurt you -- " (Sherlock has arched his back, to take in more of John.  He smiles.)  "Ohhhh -- _God_.  You -- feel -- oh, God.  As much as you can, no more.  Tell me -- oh.  Oh -- _good,_ ” John moans.  John’s heart is pounding madly.  He leans down and runs his tongue over Sherlock’s lips.  Both of them are rubbing and sighing, growling and crushing each other; their arms are at each other’s necks, and the soft sounds that John had heard in Sherlock's throat to start are now deepening, becoming wilder, broken by unrefined breaths and sighs -- some are close to words, others like depth markers of abandon.  John reaches down for Sherlock’s cock and rubs the head with his thumb, tightening his hand over it and watching his man smile.   _He likes it.  Oh fuck, yeah_.  _Likes it, gorgeous thing, I love you._   “Lie back,” he says quietly, and Sherlock opens his eyes.  John sets him down on his back and pulls out slowly, thrusting two fingers in his place, taking Sherlock in his mouth and sucking him until he is hard again and shaking against every lick.  John stops and leans over him, looking down at him as if he were about to eat him alive.  He laps at Sherlock’s ear.  It feels exquisitely lewd, but nothing like hearing John say, “You’re _so wet_ \-- I want to feel you come.”  He puts Sherlock’s arm behind his neck and slides down onto his side.  “This,” he says, giving their bottle to Sherlock, who feels soaked, his cock hot and red as he wraps an arm around John and pulls him back against his chest.  He licks his nape, groaning and gasping loudly, opening him; John grunts and thrusts back.   _“Yeah._ Let _go.  I want all of it!_ Ha -- harder!  Oh _Chriiiiist.  More.  Ahhh!  Ahh!  God!  Ahh -- fuck -- me -- fuck me --- ah, yeah, there love, there, there -- ahh --!  Chriiiiist!”_ (John comes just before Sherlock, who buries his teeth in John’s shoulder in what he would call _nonattendance of reason_.)  “ _Oh -- fuck_ yeah.  Oh, God, _you_.  Were.   _Sherlock_.  Love.  That felt _amazing_.  Oh, Jesus!  You’re.  So good.  I love you so much.  Oh, God.Hmm.  That was _mind-blowing._   Let me hold you.  I love you _so much_.  Oh, God.   _So much.”_

“Mmm, John, I love you, too.”

“Are you okay, beautiful?”

“I feel very good.  Yes.  John.  I need to go.”

“Yeah.  Okay.  You were absolutely amazing, love.  Really need a shower, though.”

“But let me go.”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable.  I’m having a shower, though.  Don’t be long.  Ah, God.” 

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, very okay.”

“Good, beautiful.  Good.  _Hnnnnn_ , you’re so amazing.”

Sherlock backs out of the room, staring at John with dark, slow eyes.  “Just a moment, please,” he says rather formally as he waves his hand, and then he is gone, locked in the bathroom, scrubbing at his hands and rinsing his face.  From what John can hear, he is mumbling to himself. 

If he were to put his ear to the door, he would hear, “-- such pleasures seek if _private be thy end_ , if it be public, wide _let them -- extend_ \-- oh, for God’s _sake_.  Slipping, are we?  Intense, long, _certain_ , speedy, fruitful, _pure_ \--“

But John is not one to pry.


	63. You know what he is

“Oh. I’m wanting to write up Sheffield.  A view of the case from the kitchen, as it were.  We’ll work on it later.  Remind me.” John switches off the cooker and pokes at the contents of a steaming pot with a long wooden spoon.

“Mhmm.  And the abstract.  The length will need to be reduced by more than half.”  Sherlock is seated at the end of the kitchen table, behind John. He is looking down at his phone.  “An article in _The Guardian_ this morning about the triplets.  _’Triple take -- Belfast trio’s heartwarming reunion’_.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up at that.  “Ha.  So they _were_ triplets?” 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you.  The lady managed to locate and meet the Shepherd’s Bush sister while we were in Vienna.”

“Belfast.  Are the sisters actually Irish?”

“Yes.  The third sister had far more information about their biological parents.  Useful.  The father died in a fire bombing and the mother was deemed mentally unfit to rear them.  A botched verdict, apparently.  State adoptions.  They’re filing a lawsuit.  You’ll hear about it soon.” Sherlock returns to scrolling through news.

“Oh, wow.  That’s just.”  John drops some cooked oats into two bowls, slices a large banana over them and sets one in front of Sherlock, along with the sugar.  “ _The Guardian_ , you said?  I’ll run out and get it.”  John rinses his hands and shakes off the water.  “Read it while we eat.  Want any of the other papers?”

“No.”

“Put the kettle on and make me a cuppa?  Oh, didn’t give you a spoon.  Sleepy.”  

“Mmm.”

“Here.  Know how _hot_ you were?”

“It’s always your bad shoulder. I don't understand why I bit you.”

“Yeah.”  John is beaming.   He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck from behind. “You _liked_ it.” _And you didn’t escape for a bath this time._ “Are you, uhm, all right today?” 

“Yes."  Sherlock might even say _surprisingly_  all right, aside from a hangover from the wine, but prefers to leave that response monosyllabic.

“Good."

 _Tell him.  Always tell him.  It is rare to be loved properly.  Rare._  "John, I love you."

"I love you, too.  Start without me.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, smiling down at his bowl.

“Hmm.”  John growls against Sherlock’s ear, kisses it, and trots off down the stairs.

***

“So, what’s -- new?” John asks, clearing his throat and looking about.  Nothing much about Mycroft’s office seems to have changed since the last time he had been ‘abducted’ from the street, some months before.

“We’ve swept up the debris in Vienna.  And Budapest.  Seemed as good a time as any for a chat,” Mycroft answers.

 _Seemed so.  To you._   John smiles briefly and watches Mycroft cross his arms.  “Well.  Been meaning to ask why Sherlock left Cambridge.  Or is it bad timing?”

“Not in the least, since you work with some of his papers now.  In a nutshell, then, if he isn’t willing to tell you himself.”  Mycroft takes a loud breath through his mouth.  “In his third year at Cambridge there was an international symposium in biochemistry held in-house, and my brother submitted three papers under false names and credentials, with contradictory findings and flawed methodology.  They were all accepted.  When the day came, he presented each of them in different disguises and accents.  Nobody seemed to take any notice of the flaws _or_ the personas, and when a discussion panel was opened after the third paper he launched into a prepared presentation on poor scholarship, the decay of the scientific method, and institutional sycophantism, pointing out everything they’d missed, tearing down the session.  Of course, the event was compromised.  The keynote speakers were outraged and nearly all refused to present, in the end.  And when Sherlock was asked to apologise to the Dean in front of a punitive committee, he responded by dropping his trousers.” (John smiles.)  “He had another prepared speech for _that_ occasion, after which he refused to apologise once again.  And was expelled.  The end of his very promising student career at Cambridge.  He might have applied elsewhere but he couldn’t be asked.  And then he ran off to Scandinavia, as you might be aware.”

 _Sweden_?  _Probably._   “Ha.  Well, you must have been proud.” 

“He wasn’t in any form to make us proud for some time, I’m afraid."

 _Drugs.  In Sweden?_   “I meant, pointing out the poor scholarship.”

“Yes.  You’d indulge him, of course.  Always the first to applaud his antics,” Mycroft remarks, “even when he has you at a disadvantage.” 

“I don’t see it that way,” John replies.

“Exactly.  All the more fortunate for him.”

 _Damn you._   John exhales in annoyance.  _But I left myself wide open for that one._ He stuffs _The Guardian_ next to his thigh, in the chair.  “What did you want to talk about.  I stepped out for a newspaper.” 

“Ah, yes.  The spellbinding saga of the Irish triplets.  Tell me.  Excepting Vienna, how has Sherlock’s work gone lately, John?”

“It’s going -- well.  He’s been working on a lot of chemical research.  Writing academic texts, now.  Helping Lestrade.  He doesn’t consult much at home, but he’s --“

“There have been three serial killers in London this year.  A record, of sorts, really.  My brother was involved in one of those cases, back in February.”

“Yes, I recall that.”

“There have been two serious terrorist threats in the last two months.  And scores of other cases.  Forgery, arson, racketeering, rape, swindling, jewel theft, gold smuggling, ransomed paintings, and the like.”

“Easy, it’s changed and they didn’t need --“

“A murder with a puzzle to it, an important kidnapping or burglary, naturally he is called in.  You’ve seen several of those lately.  In Sheffield, most recently, and the occasional murder in London.  Though not the higher-profile cases.  But it is not the crime scene that has changed.  It is what Sherlock is allowed contact with.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother is no longer given access to the types of cases upon which he once built his reputation.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Can’t I?”

“That’s, uhm.  A _very_ bad move,” John says.

Mycroft sighs, as if tolerantly, though his eyes are now glinting with annoyance.  “By all rights, John, where should he be now?”

“But he’s --“

“An exception, you want to say?  How many _exceptions_ do you _consent_ to, when you want to uphold any semblance of a justice system?”

“Yeah.  But he’ll see the papers, and he’ll put two and two --“

“And how many cases of real importance ever reach the papers?”  Mycroft gestures loosely at the newspaper next to John again.  “ _Next to none!”_

John’s mouth has fallen open.“Right.  Let me get this straight.  Are you trying to tell me that you or someone else has started keeping him off, _now?”_

“And shall continue to do so,” Mycroft replies.

“How on _earth_ can that be in the public interest?”

“It is, I assure you.  You’ve seen  numerous times, with your own eyes, what the consequences of his decisions, for instance those pertaining to you, or which he _thought_ pertained to you, could be.”

“Wait a minute --“ John shakes his head.

“And where there are lives at stake I will not allow him to go after whomever _he_ sees as a potential threat, nor handle crucial state matters as he chooses, as he did in Vienna.”

“Yeah.  Basically, because _you_ sent him in there knowing damned well what might go wrong and left him open!”

“And pulled him out at the earliest juncture.  We very nearly had a serious international crisis on our hands.  Public confidence in the highest echelons of the European Commission would have been irreparably shaken.  With the rumblings in the East, can we afford any more incidents that would undermine Europe’s economic solidarity?”

“So, yeah.  Am I supposed to communicate this change to Sherlock somehow?  Break the news to him, or --?”

 _“Under no circumstances!”_ Mycroft retorts forcefully.

“Wh - _at?”_

“If it happens that you as much as _hint_ of it, you can be sure he will be supplied with grounds to terminate your relationship and I will personally ensure you never hear _from_ him, or _of_ him, again.  And that might pain you both.  Needlessly.  Relax, John.  I have no desire to cause either of you any grief.” 

John’s hands have contracted.   “ _Browbeating_ me?  Seriously?”  John is suddenly aware that his entire back is damp.  “A little late in the game.”

“You are in a unique position, as a medical man.”

John swallows. “And?”

“You might pay closer attention.  Dizziness, fatigue, nausea, headaches.  Or does he hide it all from you?”

“Just overworked sometimes.”

“Really?  When was the last time my brother was overworked?  By all rights, he shouldn’t show signs of strain _at all_.”

“Not as --“ John breaks in.

Mycroft talks over him.  “ _Love_ , John, is taxing to Sherlock Holmes the way menial labour is taxing to the unfit in body.  But that does not mean he should be kept away from you or other things that give him pleasure, such as -- sketching _corpses_.” Mycroft wrinkles his nose for a moment as if there were an unpleasant smell in the room.  “Or solving a larger puzzle here and there.”

“But.”

“You mentioned his chemical and forensics research.  His recent efforts to publish his work are one promising direction for his energies and skill set, don’t you agree?”

 _Sketching corpses?  What corpses?_ John, as furious as he is, tries now to think that through.  _Love -- taxing to Sherlock?  Patronising.  What the fuck would you know._  “And?” he asks heatedly.

“I’ve been looking for a way to keep him off of certain lines of investigation.”  Mycroft stands and sucks in his breath as he raises his eyebrows -- one of the few mannerisms that he shares with Sherlock.  “And I believe we have it,” he says, lifting his chin and smiling glibly.

 _We have it?_   John feels a very unpleasant stab of adrenaline.  “Do you?”  A rush hits his stomach:  _Me._

“Yes, John.  And yet you look puzzled.”  Mycroft has slowly approached a cabinet containing Armagnac and snifters.

“So, wait.  That’s what all this is about?  You really expect me to -- walk out of here today and act like everything’s normal, while you --“  -- _take away what he loves to do, bastard --_

“And you will.  You care for him.” 

“I --“

“I believe you even consider him ‘ _yours’_.”

“So do you, apparently,” John snorts.

“You misunderstand.”  

“So much talent.  So much!  Since when is he considered non-essential, to anyone!  To the Met, to your -- section -- ” John blurts.

“Non-essential?”  Mycroft pours and then sniffs the Armagnac.  He offers a snifter of it to John, who ignores it.  “No, he is _quite_ useful.  But you know what he is.”    

“Yeah.  An exceptional man with a brilliant mind!” John says.

Mycroft rolls his eyes.  “Oh, Lord.  He would never let go of _you_.”

 _“Nobody’s letting anyone go!”_ John growls, rising from his chair.

“Naturally not.  That’s the _point_.”  Mycroft looks at John piercingly. “Or isn’t it, John?”

The thought crosses John’s mind that he would gladly have a drink with nearly anyone else on the planet right now, to take the edge off.  “Yeah.  So that’s all?” John asks, his ears ringing.  His knees ache so much that he has to lock them to keep standing steadily. 

Mycroft seems to have perceived that.  He exhales as his eyes narrow.  “Yes.  That’s all.  The car is waiting --“

“ _No_ , thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

“As you wish.  Good day to you.”

John leaves the building of the club, boiling to the core.  _Lie, to him?  To him!_  John would rather someone spat on him repeatedly.  

_So I carry on every day, knowing there is a glass ceiling over us, waiting to shatter?  Fuck!   Has it changed?  The scene?  Maybe.  Sheffield -- changing their minds about watching the interrogation.  No, coincidence.  Lestrade -- new, picky supervisors up above.  Coincidence?  The murder scenes.  How the hell would I know.  He may well feel it.  That the work is changing.  That would break him.  And I would be a fucking hypocrite.  Lying.  Can’t!_

He is in a furious march as he walks toward the main road.  Humiliation and dread seem to work through him, physically.  _Stop.  This.  Control this.  Stop it._  He keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him, as a reminder.  _Not here.  Not now._

_Mycroft.  Fucker!  Could lever things the other way.  Threaten to tell Sherlock I was complicit.  Kept my mouth shut.  When it’s not about being complicit!  Why would I ever want that!  This is about Mycroft, pulling weight.  Feeling threatened?  Grounds to terminate our relationship?  What ‘grounds’?  You'd have a bullet to the base of your skull the same day.  No.  Can’t.  Family.  Breathe!  Oh, shit.  Can’t lose it, not here.  Not now.  Not losing it.  Can’t --_

John approaches a street corner.  He feels another cold sweat breaking out, this time over his brows. He shivers.   _Should tell him somehow.  Take care of him._

He feels a text buzz in his pocket.  He pulls out his phone.

_Your tea is cold.  Start over?  SH_

_I know, my love, sorry._   John’s breathing begins to tighten and grow shallow.  He wants to go home.  _Beautiful creature._ Sherlock, mussed and sleepy, is at the table.  Waiting. _We will be all right, my love.  Enough.  Stop this.  We’ll be all right._

O-n _ m-y _ w-a- y , _ l-o-v-w -- _ -e

He steps forward.  A shrill voice cries out just behind him, _“Oh, no, no!”_

John doesn’t see the cab.  He hears it.  And its sound seems to lengthen, even as he falls.


	64. Calmly

Several people John doesn’t know at all have crowded over him and are peering into his face curiously with partially-open mouths and large eyes; an older man in a soft cloth cap (the cabbie) has reached down to tap at his cheeks with the back of his hand.  He presses his fingers over the pulse in John’s neck.

_Oi, rude --_

_\--who the fuck!_

“Don’t!” John growls.

“He’s waking up!  The Lord be praised.  Sir, help is on the way.  He’s awake!” the man calls out.

“Of course I’m awake!   _I’m a bloody doctor!“_  John replies, and moves to sit up.  “Get back, I’m going home!”

Someone catches his shoulder (two people seem to have; they discourage him from trying to stand). 

He wishes they would sod off and let him go.  He tells them something to that effect as a dark, persistent shade of gray pierces his entire field of vision and he drops down again. 

Soon his belligerence seems to have earned him an ambulance ride to hospital; everyone wants to hold him still.  And it is positively -- _infuriating_ \-- _why won’t they just fuck off and let me go -- I don’t need help -- he’s -- waiting._

Sherlock is.  Waiting.  And is increasingly curious as to why.

He has finished his breakfast, dressed in house clothes, and returned to the kitchen table to start a new sequence of measurements.  He is feeling the aftereffects of the five glasses of wine ( _Shouldn’t drink -- did I mention a gondola in the context of public sex?_ ).  He is soon put off by the smells of the chemicals in front of him and has to leave the work for later.  He brews a mug of herbal tea with honey to settle his stomach and stretches out languidly on the sofa, intending to finish the last chapter of his vintage book on autumn and winter bee husbandry.  Soon, in his mind’s eye, he is pulling John down on top of him as soon as he’s come close enough, to welcome him home properly with kisses. _Take him by surprise, throw him off balance entirely._ He smiles to himself.   _Tell him.  Only you.  I feel the same.  Tell me if you would be amenable.  Amenable?  Nobody talks like that.  I want your opinion.  Think about it.  Consider it.  Consider.  Yes.  Mmmm, John._   An incoming text from his brother goes ignored.  He sighs and turns a page.  And turns it back again, because he has completely forgotten the previous sentence. 

Mycroft rings after five minutes to communicate a single remark:  “Brother, your petty indifference is _beyond belief!_ ” 

_John’s absence -- an incident -- a photograph --_

The monograph has dropped to the floor; Sherlock rises from the sofa and opens the text.  And he feels as though his heart has slipped.  No.  Inaccurate.  That it has clamped shut.  The rush of heat and rage that follows seems to compensate for those deaf, white seconds it takes to make several crucial deductions from a CCTV still: 

 _The nearest large crossroads by the Diogenes.  Met Mycroft.  Why?  Vienna.  Walking toward the Tube station.  Refused the car.  Angry, offended.  Why.  London cab.  Did not hail it.  Knocked back, struck by an auxiliary mirror -- larger than standard.  A vigilant driver.  Four people waiting at the corner.  Stepped into cross traffic.  11:34:32.  Texting.  Me.  Careless!  Unlike you.  What did Mycroft say to you?  Three feet above the road, right arm raised, phone falling from the left hand.  His spine slightly curved at the waist, his hips tilted to the left, chin tucked down._

The Holmes brothers had not been on speaking terms.  Today, there will be an unstated truce for transactional purposes.

***

The calm, even baritone of Sherlock’s voice reaches John from the hallway, not far away.  He seems to be exchanging words with several people, one after the next (John cannot make out who the others are at all).  He suddenly sits up in a rush of adrenaline, furious at himself for making him wait.  For not calling.  He realises he must have forgotten somehow.  The movement makes an ice pack drop from his forehead; he swears and puts it back and settles against a large pillow that is propping him more upright than he would like to be.  His back hurts and he is nauseated; he is getting tired from his own thoughts, which frustrates him all over again.   _Why is he talking for so long._ He rubs his temples.   _Should go home with me._  

Abruptly, Sherlock sweeps into the room, a dark but quiet blur that comes to rest nearly on top of John with one arm propped by his head, as he might do at home, when they are talking, close.  Acute pain and joy have been mixed in completely new strengths -- perhaps that is why he is conveying so much intense, naked intimacy in his face.  He nips at each of John’s lips gently.  His own are trembling.  He has been smoking, a lot.  John groans and reopens his eyes.  He turns his head away quickly.  “Hmm.”  He grasps at a square of terrycloth near his hand, and claps it over his mouth, nearly retching against it.  “D -- izzy.”

“Okay.  Calmly,” Sherlock says.

“Why am I still here.  I need to go.”

“The shock.”

“No, I think it was a car.  And I’ve been here?” John asks, incoherently.  “What -- happened?”

Words start tumbling one over the next:  “John.  There was a street accident.”  (John nods slightly.) “It wasn’t an attempt on your life.  You stepped in front of a cab.” Sherlock pauses to compose himself.  “A cabbie was braking into a left turn.  Considerable torque, but even so, he had slowed down.  He caught you by your coat on his mirror and it threw you aside.  He had a large mirror, to compensate for his blind spot.  You landed with most of your weight on your lower back and hip and avoided striking the back of your head on the raised edge of the pavement by five inches.  Your fall was a remarkable one.  The neurologist in-house claims you sustained a grade two concussion, though you did lose consciousness, according to all of the eyewitnesses.  Your other injuries are entirely superficial.  Scrapes and bruises.  You’re safe.  You’re in excellent condition, in fact.”

“You were home?”

“Yes, I was.”  Sherlock exhales.  “Mycroft sent word that you’re here.”

“Mycroft.”  John sets his teeth.

“John, calm yourself.”

John’s eyes have got rounder.  “Oh.  _Shit!_   What time is it?  I’m on call tonight.”

“No.  Your colleague Albert Kilstrom is taking your hours for you.  Tomorrow night.”

“Albert.  Those?”

“Yes.  What did Mycroft say to you before you left his club?” Sherlock is asking.

“Wh - at?”  John’s eyes widen again.

“What upset you.”

 _Can’t._   John hesitates and picks up the cloth again.  “Hmmm.”

Sherlock leans down and kisses him again.  _Beautiful man._   “Okay,” he says, smoothing John’s hair uneasily at one of his temples, where it is completely gray.  “John.  It’s all right.”

“No.  It’s.” John gulps. “I need to get out of this god damned -- _place_ ,” he remarks, looking around the room anxiously.

“Agreed.  They plan to release you in the morning at nine.”   _If you behave, madman -- trying to break away from the EMTs, doctor?  For shame._ Sherlock takes one of John’s hands in both of his and holds it tightly.  His fingers smell awful (nicotine, tar, chemicals).  John squeezes them. 

“Love,” John says, taking his hand back, with the intention of petting Sherlock, who already seems to be thinking about something else.  “Don’t smoke.”

Sherlock smiles.  “Okay,” he says, kissing John’s cheek. “I love you very much.”

“Love you.”

“I hear a nurse.  John, I’m not supposed to be here now.   Ridiculous policies in this place.  They claim they have security issues.  And I need to go by the Yard.”

“Good.  That’s good,” John says, glad to hear that Sherlock is being called in.  He closes his eyes.  Soon he feels anger rising in his chest again and his head swims as he picks up the cloth for a moment.  “Hmmm.  Shit.”

“I’ll come back again, at six, when they serve dinner.  Rest.”  Sherlock’s eyes have narrowed slightly. “Your nurse is bringing you something more for your headache,” he says. 

“What?”

“For your headache,” Sherlock repeats, standing up from the bed and stepping away.

“Hmm.”

In a few seconds the door to the room swings open. 

“Sir, I told you, visiting hours are long over.  I'll need to ask you to leave the ward.  Doctor Watson,” says a nurse. “Time for another glass of water and paracetamol.  Checking your pupil dilation, tilt your head back, please.  There we are.  More ice.  There.  Good.  You sure gave us all a right scare,” she comments. “Not everyone who leaps at a cab in London gets to tell of it, you know.”

Sherlock has already slipped out of the room.  _Don’t._   John would gladly follow him.   _To the edge, of our -- sea.  The sea.  That!  Write that down for us._

“Let’s stay good and calm, Doctor, we want to avoid any jumps in blood pressure, all right?  It’s been a rough day, let’s just keep it steady now.” 

The nurse is avoiding his eyes.  “Where is my phone?” he asks.

“Right here,” the nurse says, giving it to him at eye level.  “The screen is cracked but it’s still on.”

_Rember the colou rof thr sea I love you Sherlck_

_Yes, I remember.  I love you with all my heart.  SH_

_I will come back at 6 p.m.  SH_

_I am thinking of you.  SH_

_Don’t leave the building, please.  SH_

***

“Bloody horrid.”

“Chicken-like cutlet.  Peas.  You’ve eaten worse, John.”

“Good things, lately.”

“It could be far better.”

“Damn it.  My hand.”

“Use your right hand.  I’ll cut it.  Wait, John.”

“Shit.  Why is my hand shaking.  What’s _wrong_ with me.”

“You left home this morning with a hangover and an empty stomach.”

“ _Fucked_ up.”

“You’re all right.  Eat, doctor.”

“Love, I.”

“Calmly.”

“Can’t.”

“Not true.”

“Hmmm.”

“Eat, please.”

“Dizzy.”

"John."

"Sorry.  Fucked up."

"No.  Please eat."

"Hmmm."

***

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_There?  I've just left a project meeting and it looks like we are still almost two weeks ahead of schedule.  :) Quid agis?_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

John was knocked down by a cab today.  Concussed and in shock but the latter will abate fully soon.  Nothing broken. 

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_OMG :((((  I am SO sorry Sherlock what a scare for you.  Is he home with you now?  They should observe him overnight at least, shouldn’t they?_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

He will be home in the morning.  Waiting for further opinions regarding length of recuperation before he returns to work.  Three weeks minimum.  Forgive me for making light of your brother’s death when we met and thereafter.  I am an arsehole.  Logging off.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_You’re the only proper friend I’ve got. All forgiven. Grret John fromme.  So glad hes’ ok logging off_  

***

Just past three in the morning, John wakes up dizzy and unsettled from chaotic dreams.  He has a pounding headache and his ears are buzzing.  Sherlock’s lips are brushing his cheek.   _Hospital.  Sherlock._ He feels like he is falling forward and has to sit back against the pillow.  “Wh -- are you doing, love?” he breathes, partly to himself. 

“The usual.  Mopping-up jobs.” Sherlock kisses John’s cheek again.

“You’re --” John looks at him carefully; he appears to be in a nasty knit beanie, a blue tunic with a long front zipper, jeans and sports shoes.  He has a pair of headphones slung around his neck; a mop handle is leaned against the bed next to him. “Ha.  _Ouch_.  Cleaning?” John smiles weakly.

“They do have security issues, true.  Hopeless locks.  I could plant explosives in every room,” Sherlock whispers.  “Or, kiss a soldier while he sleeps.”

“Came to see me.”

"I missed you."

John smiles.  "Love you."

“I’ll come back at nine and we’ll go home."

"Finally."

"Bed rest, and consultations after 24, 48 and 72 hours with Doctor Darrell Bramley.  A neurologist. You know him, apparently.”

“Yeah.”

“Will’s been in touch.  Darrell agreed to come to Baker Street after hours.”  Sherlock leans down to pet John’s cheek.  

“Hm.”  John is rubbing at his forehead. 

“I’ll need to go soon or someone will think he’s met his _doppelgänger_.  Could get messy about it.  High strung, likes antihistamines a bit too much, going by the smell of the clothes in his locker.” Sherlock stifles a yawn and a snicker at the same time.  “I love you very much, John.  Behave,” he says gently, near John’s ear, and pulls away, grabs his mop and goes back out into the hall, where John hears him shuffling about for a few more seconds, before all goes silent again. 

John runs his knuckles over his cheeks.  His nose is streaming and he pinches it and breathes quietly against his palm.  _What the fuck is wrong with me_.  He is anxious and moved; it is difficult to quiet it down and sleep now.  His head hurts horribly.   _Came to see me.  Love you, so much.  You've no idea.  You have no idea._


	65. Good deed

_“‘Stupid, ignorant bastard!  It all came from having nothing to do.  More than a month of paper work---ticking off his number on stupid dockets, scribbling minutes that got spikier as the weeks passed, and snapping back down the telephone when some harmless section officer tried to argue with him’.”_ Sherlock huffs, adjusting a pillow behind his back and pulling a blanket closer to his and John’s chests.  “’ _And then his secretary had gone down with the flu and he had been given a silly, and, worse, ugly bitch from the pool who called him “sir” and spoke to him primly through a mouth full of fruit stones’...”_

John and Sherlock are in Sherlock’s bed, having just had a lunch of second-day tomato soup, carrot salad and baked turkey breasts (too dry, according to Sherlock, though John had praised them) with wild and jasmine rice that he’d forgotten to salt, as it had turned out ( _there's always something_ ).  Having meals in bed together has quickly become a new custom of theirs.   _Almost like several garden picnics daily,_ thinks Sherlock.  He reaches over and strokes John's rough chin. _Except that both of ours today have included varying degrees of nudity, which would be difficult to sustain in London’s parks, particularly given the succession of cold rainstorms presently passing over London.  Mmmm.  And my John would draw a crowd._    Sherlock lowers the book, glances at the rain driving at the window and looks over at his dearest person in the world.   _Where could we kiss with complete abandon in the grass?_

He will try to answer that question another time.  In spite of noticeable improvement every day, John is very easily agitated and frustrated.  When his head hurts most, he holds a wall to steady himself as he walks gingerly from room to room and it makes him feel _fucking pathetic,_ as he frequently remarks.  John’s left hand still shakes from nervous tension and it becomes noticeable when he eats.  He is impatient with himself over that; it is certainly psychosomatic.  Earlier, when Sherlock had smeared heather honey on that hand and licked it gently (for each fingertip, a different treatment with teeth, lips and tongue, which he’d asked John to assign names to, to make him laugh), the tremour had vanished for some time.  And John had giggled and stared at him appealingly.  Even pleadingly, by the end.    

Sherlock can hardly leave John alone out of a sort of anxious happiness to have him there.  Alive.  Stubborn.  Loving.  He doesn’t indulge in _what if_  or _what would I have done_ , though John certainly does.  The full significance of the accident has set in on him; he is angry at himself over his own carelessness at the crossroads and faults himself for troubling his friend.  Sherlock does not feel put out by John’s needs, in the least; however, he has already noticed that any mention of his work makes John clingy and irritated.  He sometimes closes up completely, which is something Sherlock is not familiar with (he sees now how much he’d always relied on John’s matchless ability to reach out to _him,_ over the years).  He has already consulted Linda about it, in confidence.  From her descriptions, it is _not_ the dangerous, self-isolating silence of the months following his return from Afghanistan and subsequent broken engagement.  Even so, at her suggestion, Sherlock has locked John’s gun in one of his own drawers. 

(“What else do you want from your flat, John?”  “My Sig.”  "Shirts?"  "Hm.")  

“You should hear yourself _read_ ,” John mumbles, at his side; his eyes are closed and he runs a warm hand down Sherlock’s stomach. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and sighs.  “ _’And now it was another Monday morning.  Another week was beginning.  The May rain thrashed at the windows.  Bond swallowed down two Phensics and reached for the Eno's.  The telephone in his bedroom rang.  It was the loud ring of the direct line with Headquarters’.”_   He makes a disparaging sound.  “Are compound sentences really such an effort?  Oh, here’s something.   _‘James Bond, his heart thumping faster than it should have done, despite the race across London and a fretful wait for the lift to the eighth floor, pulled out the chair and sat down and looked across into the calm, gray, damnably clear eyes he knew so well. What could he read in them?’”_

“Like you and Greg,” John says.  “It’s funny, someone could write about _you_ like that.”

“Someone already does.  And apparently, he doesn’t want to be read to this afternoon.”

“I do.  You’re just so -- _hot.”_ John goes to roll over and steals a kiss against Sherlock’s chest.

“Stay still.  No sudden change in blood pressure or to the position of the head.”

“I’m not.  _Hmmm_.”

“John -- stay as you are.”

“Want some water.  For the paracetamol.”  John sighs.  “Bring me some paracetamol?”

“Okay.”  Sherlock slides out of his bed.  “No, you’re staying here.”

When he comes back with tablets and a glass of water, John is yawning.  “Yeah.  I’m -- tired, actually.  I don’t know why, I just had a nap.”

“Water.”  Sherlock gives the tablets to John.  “That ice pack is useless now.”

“You should be working, love.”

“No.  Please give me the ice pack, in the towel.”

“Not going to read anymore?” John asks.

“You wanted paracetamol and water.  Take it.  Please.”

“Can you put this -- uhm -- on -- that.”

“Okay.  The ice pack.”

John picks it up and gives it to him with wide eyes.  “Sherlock, I’m.”

“Calmly.”

“Losing it.”

“No, you are not.”

“Saying such stupid _shit_.  _Damn_ it.”

“No.  You’re far better today than yesterday or the day before.”

Sherlock takes the melted ice pack out to the kitchen and tosses it into the freezer.  When he comes back, John is rubbing his knees, his eyes dark. 

 _Agitated, aroused?_  

“I’m keeping you from working.”

Sherlock crawls onto the bed.  “No, you are not.  I’m doing all of it remotely today.  It’s really just fine.”

John is starting to lock up.  “Saying stupid things.  How can you stand listening to it?”

“Remember what your neurologist friend Darrell said?”

“Hmmm.”

“You’re doing exceptionally well.”  Sherlock pets his cheek.   

“Just.  Can’t sit around the house.”

“Calmly, soldier.”

“Read some more?”

Sherlock picks up the book again and affects a pretentious drawl:  _“’Good morning, James. Sorry to pull you along a bit early in the morning. Got a very full day ahead. Wanted to fit you in before the rush.’”_

“You read -- _ha_.  That’s funny.  Love.  Uhm.”

“Mmm?”

“Sherlock.  I’d just really like to get off with you a little.”

Aside from the honey licking at breakfast in the morning, Sherlock has been trying not to provoke John, out of concern over his blood pressure.  Now he swallows and nods, once.   His own pulse is already affected.  “I know.” 

John is tracing a long, warm line along the front of Sherlock’s soft pyjama trousers. 

 _“’Bond's excitement waned minutely. It was never a good sign when M addressed him by his Christian name instead of by his number. This didn't look like a job -- more like something personal....’”_  

Nearly everything Sherlock has read on head injuries in the professional literature (and he has read _hundreds_ of pages of it) passes over sex as if it were somehow less likely to occur in the life of a concussed patient than the urge to go mountain biking or snorkeling, which he finds ludicrous.   Now, Sherlock feels himself responding, with almost painful eagerness, to John’s warm fingertips, which have parted open the fabric of his flies.  It is the first time John has touched him intimately in six days.  He pauses and closes the book over his hand again.  “Text your friend Darrell and confirm whether you can safely orgasm, provided you are sitting upright and you don’t move your head.”  He unplugs John’s damaged phone from where it has been charging by the bed and passes it to him. 

John smiles at him knowingly -- even defiantly, which Sherlock decides is _unbearably_ erotic, even before he opens his mouth _(his tongue rolling suggestively -- mmm, my John)_ and says, “Of course I can.”

“Of course you can _confirm_ ,” Sherlock replies, noting that his hands have started trembling.

“Yeah.”  John clears his throat and obediently composes what he hopes is a medically neutral text.

The reply comes after another (stuttered) page of _Thunderball_ , when John has one hand over his own cock and the other straying over Sherlock’s, under their shared blanket.  John lets go of himself, picks up the phone and triumphantly shows the cracked screen to Sherlock, who smirks when he sees his friend’s unrestrained delight.

 

                _Hi John, May result in dizziness and nausea.  Minimise all head movement._

_Take it easy while she does the good deed LOL. D_

 

“A chauvinistic neurologist.  Interesting.”  Sherlock’s eyebrow twitches as he puts the book aside and pushes the blankets away from John, who is already breathing raggedly and smiling with anticipation.  “Now remind me,” Sherlock says, taking John’s hand and kissing his palm.  “Which finger was I licking honey from this morning when you said --”

“ _Bad soldier_.  The middle one,” John moans.  “Oh.  Please.  Oh yeah --”

“Don’t look down.  And don’t you dare move about,” Sherlock purrs, as he takes down John’s pyjama. 

“I won’t.  Oh, your mouth.  Hmm.  Oh, _so good._   Ow.  Oh.  Sher -- lock.  Oh, oh -- oh, God, you’re so -- _gorgeous,_ love.”  (Sherlock swats his thigh.)  “Not moving, _I swear._  No.  Not looking.”  John sighs and smiles.  “No.  _Ow._   Don't stop.  Oh.   _Jesus_.  More!  Oh -- yeah.  Oh, ahhhhh, _hmmm, love_ \-- _ahhh_ \-- yeah -- ahh -- ow -- _hnnn_  -- so good, so good --” John is grinning and giggling, though his head is smarting badly enough that as he comes he has tears streaming from the corners of his eyes from the pressure.

Sherlock sits up, rubbing his lips with his thumb.  John groans and smiles over at him.  “You’re so amazing,” he sighs.  “Oh.  _Ow.”_

“How is your head.  You’re in a lot of pain, John.  It’s too soon.”

“Hurts.”  John is pale, biting his lips.  But he is still smiling, his chest shaking from nerves and laughter.  “No.  Don’t mind, though, that was _so_ good.  Needed you so bad.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, oh yeah.”

“I’ll bring you ice.”

“It’s all good.  No.  Later.  Come, beautiful.  Arm around my neck.  Yeah.  Now you.”

“Sorry?”

“Now you.”

“Another -- _time._   _Oh.  John.  J --”_

“Not looking down, no.  Hmmmm.  Kiss me.  No, I don’t mind.  Hmmm, you’re so.  Hard.  Hnnnngh, so sexy.  Come on, I want to feel you get off hard.  Faster?”

“Ye -- J -- oh -- should -- ah -- like that, yes.  John -- J -- _hnnnnn_ \-- J -- ohn -- I -- oh -- _mmmm_.“  Sherlock’s forehead is damp and he is panting and groaning ( _vulgar_ ) against John’s neck; the next thing he hears clearly is a husky, dark hum in John’s throat. 

“Feeling you come like that is _mind-blowing,”_  he says. “You wanted it.”

Sherlock exhales and nods.  “Let me help you -- take that off.  I’m.  Sorry.”

“What for.”  John leans forward and kisses his nose, because it is closest, and he likes it.  He puts his arms around Sherlock’s back.  He shivers a bit.  “Whenever you want, love.  Ouch.  Need to get up, okay?  _Ow.”_

“Okay.  So do I.”

“Can you.  Yeah.”  Sherlock puts an arm around John’s shoulders as they stand up from the bed.  John leans back against the wall and sighs.  Sherlock is taking out a fresh shirt for him.  “Hmmm, oi,” he says, trying to catch his balance, as Sherlock pulls the neck of a t-shirt open widely and slips it carefully over John's head.  “Leave me at the bathroom door, love,” John says, and Sherlock gives him an arm.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, as John shuffles against his hip.  “I’m going to do some work, now.”

“Yeah.  Keeping you from it,” John mumbles.  “Damn it.”

“No, you aren’t.  Rest.  You’re dizzy.”

“Yeah, I am.  Worth it, love, I don't mind.  Work, I won’t bother you.”

“Bother me.  Soon.”  Sherlock kisses his cheek.  “Let me know when you want to take tea.  I have ginger biscuits.”

“The -- _those?_   You’re.”  John’s smile has started to look troubled.  “What is _wrong_ with me,” he mutters.

“Nothing at all.”

“Yeah.”

John locks himself in the bathroom and Sherlock goes to the kitchen for a glass of water and to scrub at his hands.  He is writing up a plan for a series of experiments concerning chemical oxidation effects (on a new type of polymers) for a leading consumer safety agency.  They had approached him three days before and asked him to do research on a contract basis.  Endurance testing of synthetic and natural materials, generally speaking, generating empirical support for reports.  He is very pleased.  He looks forward to telling John about it.

Later, wrapped in dressing gowns, he and John have a late tea in bed.  With porcelain and linen.  And very wrinkled blankets.  They spill some of their tea as they lose themselves in kisses ( _arguably, another ritual of ours,_ thinks Sherlock, and bends down to lick some sticky tea and honey from John’s knee; he listens as a laugh begins to form in John’s nose and shaking chest.  “Don’t look down,” Sherlock tells him, and snickers warmly against John’s thigh.)

***

In the night, when Sherlock is staring into the darkness of his room, unable to sleep, he hears that John is wide awake, as well.  He wants to turn and ask him for another kiss.  His body feels loose and restless.  He has been thinking of a bedtime story for John:  a gondolier wants to seduce a handsome, sandy-haired soldier under the blankets in his gondola.   

_They look up at the stars as he eases the soldier down onto himself, holding his powerful chest from behind, opening him wide for the first time, driving up into him in small, quick strokes, as his man whimpers and writhes in his lap.  Virgin soldier.  The gondolier pleasures him from behind, admires him, and laps at his salty, strong neck just as the water laps noisily at the sides of the gondola -- but they cannot kiss -- and the soldier cries out as they drop forward onto their knees and the gondolier has his way yet again, deep in his soldier’s hard, muscular arse, pounding him in the elevated measure of his raging heart.  His thighs are burning in the mad frictions of his passion and he comes in frenzied waves of pleasure, the gondola rocking wildly in the water -- the soldier is begging to kiss him -- oh, John --what have you unleashed -- that was vulgar -- or maybe not vulgar enough?_

But John speaks first.


	66. The gondolier

 

“Awake?” John whispers quietly, in the dark.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, turning over and sliding a hand over John’s ( _warm_ ) chest.

John clears his throat.  “Can you just turn on your lamp?  Hmm _._   Bright.”

Sherlock sits up and looks over John’s sleeping position -- upper body elevated, on a series of three carefully-placed pillows, which he pokes at.   “Adjust these?” 

“No.  Love, uhm.”

“Mmm?”

“I’ve been thinking,” John says.

“Yes, I could hear.”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“We.  Should live together.”

Sherlock blinks.  “Yes, we should.”

“Yeah.  Good.”

“When?”

“When I go back to work.  Soon.  Arrange things,” John says.

“Brilliant.”

“Love.  Hmmm.”  John sits up fully and stares at Sherlock.

“John, calmly.”

“Should have before.  I don’t know why I’m.”

“Shh.”

“What is _wrong_ with me,” John mumbles.

“Shh, it’s all right.”

“Can’t stop this.  My hand.”

“Calmly.”

“Yeah.”  John breathes quietly.

“John, I want to kiss you.”

“Yeah.  Go on, love.  Don’t ever wait.”

Sherlock feels that his own fingers are trembling when he takes John’s hand and leans over him for a small, gentle kiss.  He wants much more.

“Come here, closer,” John is saying quietly. “What would I do without you, love?”  

“Don’t imagine it.” Sherlock’s heart is pounding like mad.

“Beautiful phoenix.”

“Brilliant that you’ll be here,” Sherlock says. 

“All right?  Your hands --”

“Yes, I know.”

“Maybe you’d --“

“Yes.”

“I’d --“

“Touch me, John.”

“Oh, you’re --”

“Yes.”

“Want you, too.  You felt so amazing today.”

“Let’s.  Together.”

“Hmmm.  Yeah.”

“Take off yours.  All the way.”

“Been wanting a frot with you so bad, love, hmmm.”

“No, don’t move.  I’m -- very wound up.”

“-- Yeah -- “

“Don’t move.  No.  Let me.”

“Oh, God.  _That.  Feels.”_

“Touch us.  Together.”

“Move, gorgeous.  Talk to me a little.  Drives me _bloody_ _insane_.”

“Shhh.  I want to -- tell you a story, John.”

“Oh God -- yeah -- “

“A gondolier,” Sherlock says.

“In a gondola.  Yeah, tell me.”  John’s eyes have gone mad and dark.

Sherlock pauses.  He has just forgotten the story he’d been composing in his mind, minutes before. 

_A soldier, a gondolier, sex ensues.  The soldier.  The water._

_My John.  Moving home, in a matter of days._ John is rubbing their cocks gently in his hand.  Sherlock’s heart is throbbing in his throat (John’s tongue is passing slowly over it now).

“How does it go?” John asks.

Sherlock takes a quick breath that to John ( _oh fuck yeah, you’re so hot)_ sounds more like a gasp.  

“The gondolier is a sailor, who finds his way back to his city.  He finds employment as a gondolier but he longs for the open sea, which he cannot see in the water that stands at the foot of doorsteps and the older windows belonging to his passengers.  The people, tourists, scents, sounds and colours of Venice remind him only vaguely of the ports he has seen.  John, that feels -- very good.  No.  Don’t move.  No.  Let me.”  Sherlock rests his chin against John’s shoulder and wraps a hand around his neck.  He still cannot remember his original story.   And the odds are next to none that he will regain the concentration needed to put it together.  He cannot even _estimate_ how low the odds are.  _Improvise._   He continues.  “He dreams of the sea as he rows.  Sharing it -- somehow.  He doesn’t even.  Know how he intends to share it, since it isn’t his.  And.  As well, nobody speaks to him.  He is faceless.  To most people.  They see his back.  As he works.  The lines of his shoulders, legs.”

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” John moans, closing a hand over Sherlock’s arse.  “Move just like that, love -- talk to me -- ”

“He -- is in the background of -- many photographs.  He is a symbol.  In them.  A funny hat, a striped shirt.  Part of a city.  Others’ experiences.  He often carries lovers -- in his gondola.  Not his own.   Lover.  _J--ohn --_   “

“Hmmm, love you.”

“Two by two, hour by hour.  He does not look back at them, but it is not out of envy.  No.  He hears them talk.  And that is enough.  Sometimes there are -- proposals of marriage -- or other declarations.  They often take for granted -- that --  he doesn’t listen.  But he does.  In spite of himself.  When he is lonely.  Because it happens.  That he is lonely.  As he rows, he imagines.  A solitary passenger.  He dreams.  Of a voice.  Because it would begin there.  He might listen and know.  That it is a countryman.  Recently returned from abroad.  Experienced and bright but -- subtle.  The gondolier would row him home.  From the centre.  Nearly every day.  Until he understands that -- he has -- begun waiting.  Waiting, to be waited for.  By the passenger.  And moreover.  He waits for that voice.  Behind him.  He imagines how that would be.  To be seen by someone else.  That someone would wait for him.  Choose him.  He wishes he could turn his head -- and see -- the man -- in his gondola -- when he wants to.  Oh -- _hnnn_ \-- John.  But he _cannot_.  The man doesn’t exist.  After all.  He’s a _dream_.  The gondolier loses himself in it.  More and more.  Oh -- mmm, John --”

“But does he -- meet that man?” John asks, sighing against Sherlock’s neck.  “Getting close, love.  You feel so _amazing_.  Jesus -- _ow_ \-- ”

“He does.  He feels like he knows his voice -- immediately.  And he would -- follow it -- anywhere.  But it is not his role.  As a gondolier.  To follow.  But they become friends.  One day, oh -- like _that_ , John, _yes_ \-- -- the gondolier finds -- the courage.  To row them.  To the edge of the city, to the mouth.  Of his beloved -- sea.  ‘Where are we?’ the man asks.  He is -- puzzled.  In his own city -- and.  The gondolier turns.  And looks at him.  ‘We are adrift.’  ‘Why?’ his companion asks.  _Mmmmm, John._   And.  The gondolier says, ‘We can -- go back.  To the city.  Into the canals.  And I will -- take you.  Home.  As I always have.  Or we might -- float out.  Into the sea -- that -- brought you.  To me _._   ‘I want to stay,’ the man -- says -- to the gondolier, who replies -- ‘Tell me -- if I am dreaming.  Wake me.  And make love, to me, here.  Or.  Refuse.  But let me dream about you.  Here, on the water, where we -- are alone.’  And the man -- smiles.  ‘You are not dreaming.’  He holds out his hand to the gondolier.  “And I will not refuse you.”  And.  I -- don’t know -- how to tell -- stories.   I’m nearly -- d -- done.  John -- I -- _oh_ \-- J -- ohn -- nngh -- _mmmm_ \-- I  -- love you -- with all -- _hnnn_ \-- “

“Love you.  Oh -- god -- oh -- Christ.  Ow -- oh God.  Ow.  Ouch.  _Ahh, God.”_ John groans and lies back against the pillows. “Ah, I love you.”

“Are you all right?  Your head.  You didn’t move forward too much?  John."

“No, okay.  It’s okay.  So good.  Hmm, love you.”

Sherlock curls up on John’s chest for a while.  Neither of them feel like moving, at all.  Sherlock closes his eyes.  His original story is starting to return to his head.  _Of course._   “John,” he says, finally. 

“Yeah?  You want to go.”

“Yes.  But I have a question.” Sherlock props his chin on his arm and stares up at John intently.  He looks absolutely wild.  John would push his hair back, but thinks better of it.  “You told me before you left Sheffield that I might make you a happy man.  Am I making progress?” he asks.

John almost coughs.  _Is he joking?_  “Yeah.  You can’t imagine how much.”

“Mmm.  But let me go, please.”

“Yeah, here.” John grunts from head pain and moves his leg aside.  “Can you -- I want to get up.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock helps John stand.  He is not able to catch his balance right away but insists he will follow the wall to the bathroom himself.  He claims he can do without a dressing gown, too.

“Can you just bring me some water when you come back?” he asks.

“Of course.  You’re tired.”

“Tired, yeah.  Sleep like the dead, now.”

“Okay.  Ice?  Paracetamol?” Sherlock stands and wraps himself in his dressing gown.

“Yeah, both.” John smiles at him sweetly.  “Thank you.  You’re.  Wonderful.  Tomorrow, my love.  Be ready for me.”

Sherlock smiles back and knots the tie in his hands, firmly. 

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he says.   

***

"All they needed was some clear packing tape.  Of course.  Yes.  Check it, Lestrade, there will be residue.  I don't care if they didn't see any.  Check it again.  No.  Then you tell  _Allen_ that his forensics team should be pushed out on an -- ice floe.  No.  No.  The day after tomorrow.  No, wait.  Friday.  Yes.  No."  Sherlock rings off and tosses his phone onto the kitchen table.

"What was that all about?" John asks.  "An ice floe?"

" _Nnnngh."_

"Okay.  Uhm." John shrugs.  “What smells so good in here?”

“Potato leek soup on a base of chicken broth and toasts with garlic butter, cheese and marjoram.”

“Oh, God.  When.”

“Not long now.  Sit down.”

“Hmm, where do you get the ideas for all of these things?  Seriously, love.”

“In fact, there’s a web page where you tick off the food you have in a list and it links your key ingredients to a database of several hundred thousand recipes.  And you choose the level of difficulty, in preparation.  The rest is what you once referred to as ‘transferrable skills’.”

“Right.”

“See, whenever I describe my methods it is invariably disappointing.  Nothing special in it.”

“I disagree.  Never thought of looking for something like that.”

“Mmm.  My cooking is not an argument in my favour, so what really convinced you to move back?” Sherlock is trying to joke, but it isn’t entirely reflected in his manner, which seems cautious, as if something near him might crack and John might change his mind.

“I think you’re serious,” John says.

“Yes, it is a serious question,” Sherlock replies.

“No.  I meant, Sherlock, that _you_ are serious.  It’s just time.” 

“Mmm.” 

“You were right all along.  No sense in upholding fiction even if it's on a devil’s agreement.”

“You’ll lose on it?”

“Doesn’t matter, love. But, yeah.”

“We’ll give your hiring agreement to Lawrence.  He’ll find something contestable in it.  Then it’s just a matter of choosing the right threats.”

“I’m going to miss the wardrobe.  In all honesty.”

“The mirrors look like melting eyes.”

“Nah.  To me they look more like cocks.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you’ve probably seen a melting eye and I haven’t, so, yeah.  There’s still room for discussion.”

Sherlock grins at that and goes back to staring down into the pot in front of him.

 _Should he really be cooking food?_   thinks John, and rubs his forehead with a sigh.  Slowly it occurs to him that the scene in front of him is _really_ happening.  _Really_.  Sherlock has managed to feed him up all this time, and that in itself is amazing.  _Much less all the rest -- time, talking, reading, kissing, sex, putting up with things.  Putting up with everything -- I’m keeping him from everything.  Shit._

When Sherlock turns around to comment on his new experiments, he sees John’s wide, sad eyes and it silences him immediately.  He bends down and kisses him.

“I think I’ve forgotten to heat the broiler element in the oven,” he says, in a moment.  “Nine additional minutes, total.”

“It’s all fine,” John says.  “You know damned well that it is.” He grabs Sherlock and wraps his arms around his waist.  “Everything you’re doing is appreciated, understand that.  I really, really, appreciate it.  I don’t want to keep you from doing your things, okay?  So do what you need to.”

“I plan to.”

“Good, love.”

 _So agitated.  Why?_  

***

“ _Oh, God, I love you._   Oh -- look at you, oh God -- _hmmm_.  Please -- like that, oh -- oh yeah!  So.  Sherlock, love, don’t let it -- hurt -- you -- so good.  Oh, love.  _Hnnn -- so good_ , so perfect -- _oh -- ahhhh --   Ahhh!  Oh, I love you_ \-- beautiful you, so much, _ahh_ \-- ah God, you can’t even imagine, how much you mean to me -- _can’t imagine_ \-- ” 

John holds Sherlock in his lap tightly; he is shaking and exhausted after a violent orgasm that has given him a pounding headache.  Again, tears are streaming from the corners of his eyes.  Sherlock is in a lot of pain, as well; it sharpens his thoughts and brings focus instead of relief.   John is petting his head and kissing his neck.  “Feels so -- you beautiful angel.  You’re so wonderful, come here, let me hold you.  You should see how you are, oh my God.  Don’t leave, no.  No.  Stay a little, okay?  Stay.” 

***

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_How’s John feeling?_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

He is improving quickly which is encouraging.  What od you know about concussion and depression?  Linked according to some of the literature.

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

*do

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_Yes, they can run in pairs, definitely.  Sustained pain, oversensitivity to light and sound, feeling dependent at home and/or useless on leave from work and stress from the danger in the accident itself can contribute.  The pain and pressure he feels might be very much like a migraine, which you can relate to.  From what I understand he was seriously injured abroad and an accident might reactivate stress and memories of pain from other difficult periods.  If I were you, I’d listen carefully to anything he is repeating and remind him frequently that the discomfort is temporary.  Plan things, like a trip, or an event, or whatever, so he looks beyond whatever is frustrating him at a given time.  Very high doses of patience and love (of course!)  I’m sure you’re an excellent ‘nurse’ ;)_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

Difficult to comment on my efficacy as a ‘nurse’, though he plans to move back.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_OMG you must be so happy!  Don’t even try to deny it._

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

I don’t deny it. 

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_You’re indirectly forcing me to ask this directly.  Are you engaged? :)_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

If you are referring to press coverage, those photos were quite accidental.  

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_Accidentally wearing a band on your finger.  If anyone, you would know how it was done, I suppose._

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

Moving on, sometime you will explain why you abandoned psychology in favour of drafting.

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_1\. diagnosing real people would be too nerve-racking 2. by the third year at uni I didn’t care for the subject anymore 3. David was the smart one.  The end._

_aganussbaum wrote:_

_“Moving on”, how is your repertoire of Gilbert and Sullivan on violin?_

_thescienceofdeduction wrote:_

Dark waters, indeed.


	67. Errors of omission

Sherlock is seated in the living room with the Honourable Professor Merlin Brockforthe of Oxford University’s department of Earth Sciences, who is visiting London for the afternoon and has dropped by Baker Street to discuss an instance of cheating.  John has elected to remain in bed with a book.  He is drinking tea, still naked after a nice shower, with a sheet wrapped loosely around his knees.  Unfortunately, he sneezes (it is painful) and spills some hot tea on his lap (even more painful); the teacup clatters loudly and he cannot control a growl in response.

Sherlock excuses himself and goes to his room, closing the door behind him.  “What’s the matter,” he asks, quietly.

“No, sorry, no, just lost it.  Sneezing. Never mind.”

“Okay.”  Sherlock’s eyes sweep over him.  “You look good.  Healthy.”

“Thanks, love.”  John stifles a laugh.  “Interesting case?”

“A locked door mystery,” Sherlock says, very quickly, brushing his fingers through John’s hair.  “The professor has an important examination on his desk.  He leaves the room for a cup of coffee, locking the door behind him.  There is a secretary with a view of the entire hallway, where his office is located.  She didn’t leave her desk; she claims nobody came to the door.  There is no reason not to believe her -- she has been working in the department for nearly twenty years and is discreet and reliable.  The casement window in the professor’s office does not open because it was carelessly painted a number of years ago.  It is also locked.  There is a small, top-opening window that the man uses to ventilate the room.  It is less than one by two feet in size and not particularly accessible from the outside gardens; it is more than ten feet above ground.  There are low, bushy flowering plants beneath the window which have not been stepped in, there is no sign of a ladder having been set anywhere near.  So, John.  How did photographs of his examination, spread out on his desk, make their way to Facebook during his absence of less than seven minutes?”

“I don’t know.  A camera on a timer, held on a very long stick, fed through the window.”

“No.  The photographs were taken directly above the desk, which is about four feet away and perpendicular to the window.  There are also filing cabinets in the way, apparently.”

“Maybe a messenger pigeon, beautiful.  Like Mr. Kováč was training, you know, except carrying a camera around its bloody neck!” John snickers.

“Can’t control it and tell it where in the room to fly with the digital camera.” 

“True, you’d have to train them a lot.  I don’t know, love, you’ll figure it out.”

“Mmm.  A messenger pigeon.  _Trained_ , being the key word.  We’re looking for its equivalent, John.  What could fly into a small, top opening window, photograph -- oh.  Oh!  Thank you.  Mmmmm.”  Sherlock kisses John’s forehead gently and leaves the room.  “A drone,” John hears him say, as he goes back into the living room. “You’re looking for a student with a small, remote controlled drone, easy enough to buy online these days.  Most likely filmed the examination in Hi-D and posted stills.  It could have been steered with an application on a mobile phone.”

“A drone!” the professor frets.  “How will I air out my office if there are drones fluttering about!”

“Buy some wire mesh and install it in the window, and carry on until drones are further miniaturised, repeat.”

John snickers and goes back to his book as he hears the two men turn to the fascinating subject of obsidian before the professor takes his leave.

“John,” Sherlock says, as he comes back into his room and slides onto the bed next to his friend, “you’ve saved me valuable time.”

“Suggesting a pigeon, you mean?  Come on.”

“By not getting dressed.”

“Hmmm.” 

“Tempting me to throw professor honourable whomever out on his ear after forty seconds with you.  How am I supposed to maintain any shred of an international reputation, John.”

Something has tightened in John’s face.  He recovers and smiles.  “I dropped my tea on purpose.”

“Not true.  You wouldn’t have chosen to drop it on your.  Self.  Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah.” 

Sherlock decides to confirm.  John starts laughing.  Sighing.  Begging.  Praising.   _Sherlock_ \--  _beautiful, more -- you, oh God -- love, so good, so good --_

***

“I want to tell you a story.  A nightmare of mine.  You’ll overlook that.”

Sherlock has been reading one of the middle chapters of _Thunderball_ to John.  They have got ready for bed and Sherlock is nearly in John’s lap, enjoying the heat of him as he pulls a blanket over them both.

“Okay,” John says, putting an arm over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“But this is a dream that I’ve had off and on, for years.  The protagonist is usually faceless. A man.  He loves someone.  A man or a woman -- it’s indefinite and changes depending on what cases I’ve been working on.  For our purposes, though, it will be about you and me.”  Sherlock rubs his temple with his fingertips.  “In fact, it’s only really a nightmare when I perceive myself as the protagonist and you are the one I love.”

“Right,” John says, shaking his head and knitting his brows. _Whatever that means_.  “So, how does it go?”

“The story is nearly always the same.  It has been decided that this man and his lover will be separated.”

“Why?”

“It’s never specified.  That’s merely the starting point.  A decision has been made.”

“Who makes the decision?” John asks, bristling. “Someone pulling weight?”

“That is never clear.  But it _is_ clear that you and I will be separated.  We decide that we will meet in exactly three years’ time.  We kiss, we make love, we promise, and then, we are separated.  Three tedious years pass.  And finally, the day comes when we are to meet again.”

“Yeah,” John says, petting Sherlock’s head. 

“I arrive the day before, late in the evening.  I can’t sleep.  My body is craving yours so much that I pace around the room like a caged animal all night.”

“Hmmm.”

“By morning, I can hardly endure the idea of seconds, minutes, hours, days, and months anymore, and I hate being part of time and space, itself.  I even feel that I must have a soul, after all, because I feel like something is about to tear my heart to pieces as it exits my chest.  I’m furious.  The body is always _subject_.  Stranded to the earth.  Right then I _hate_ it for that.  Yet I need it, to be with you.”

_Oh my God._  John notices that he has been holding his breath and takes a gulp of air.  Sherlock continues.

“But.  I make my way to the city square.  In the dream, I’m always sitting next to an ornate fountain, like the one in the _Residenz Platz_ in Salzburg.  With horses that are spewing water.  Have you seen it?  No?  We’ll go.  In March, in Passau.  You will come, won’t you?  We could hire a car and take a day trip.  When I was a child, Mycroft told me the horses had hopped in for a Christmas swim and had got frozen there and the people sitting by us were their Austrian owners waiting for them to thaw out.  I felt so sorry for them, waiting.  Bastard.”  Sherlock huffs.  “Well.  In my dream, when I take a seat there, the sun has just risen.  And I wait for you.  After three years, and even after all that madness in the night, a few hours feel entirely inconsequential to me.  But by midday, I begin to wonder why you don’t share my desire to meet as early as possible.  I dismiss it.  Perhaps you’ve been delayed.  And it is unjust of me to be impatient.  As the afternoon stretches into evening, and it starts getting dark -- nearly too dark to see you approach, I think carefully about the day, and what I’ve seen.  Scores of people had come to that fountain.  Many of them had waited.  Some appeared to have met their friends, or lovers, and to have gone off with them.  Others appeared to have been disappointed, and had left alone.  Suddenly, I realise that there is one other man who has waited at the fountain nearly as long as I have.  I go round to him, and ask for a cigarette.  And I ask him why he has been waiting.  We smoke and he explains that he is waiting for his lover, who’d promised to meet him in that very spot, on that very day.  I have an irrational thought that he means to trick me, or that you’d sent him in your place, and he’d misunderstood his instructions, wasting many hours before giving me a message from you.  I ask him who he is meeting and he tells me about her.  While we are talking, she arrives.  He sees her easily, though it is late evening.  Their reunion is beautiful.  It nearly moves me, because I imagine how I will feel when I see you.  The energy of it.  Your happiness.  And mine.  The man introduces her to me and she and I exchange a few words.  She asks me about you, when I expect you.  She sees my concern and growing impatience.  Abruptly, she looks deep into my eyes and says, ‘You waited three years.  Yes.  And you arrived in good time.  But that is not enough.  From what you’ve told us, it seems you never established _where_ you were to meet.  He is somewhere else in the world, looking for you today.  But I am afraid he will not find you.  Surely you will not fault the man for not having arrived, too.’  Her lover gives me another cigarette and says, ‘Perhaps the sense of all of this will be found in the act of waiting, itself.’  When I don’t respond, the woman adds, ‘You have chosen such a lovely place to wait.  He would have appreciated its beauty, if he’d found you today.  You might take heart in that.’  And I feel the most profound _despair_.  I am even more mortified by the idea that you are somewhere, cold, in body and heart, like I am, as the evening sun sets on our day.  That you have been waiting in vain, like I have, expecting me.  That you have also come to realise our mistake, and that you’re suffering, as much as I am.  Or that you’d realised it long before, and have suffered far longer.  And the dream always ends that way.  When I am wondering whether you have appreciated the flaw in our plan, but if you might, by chance, arrive.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Well.”

“That’s one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard,” John says, his eyes wide.  “You have to write that down.”

“No, I dream variations of it regularly enough.  No need,” Sherlock says, waving a hand.

“Bloody awful.”

“As I said.  It’s only a nightmare when you’re in it.  Otherwise it feels more like an early-twentieth-century philosophical sketch.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Sherlock smooths John’s fringe aside.  “I might have chosen something else to tell you.  I’ve spoiled the mood.”

“Sort of.  Grateful for mobile technologies about now.” 

“But tell me one thing, John.”

“Hmm?”

“Would I still be yours, if we were separated?”

“What?”

“Would I still be yours?”

_I will personally ensure you never hear from him, or of him, again.  And that might pain you both.  Oh, fuck._   John’s eyes have gone cold and dark.  He straightens.  “Yes.  You would.  But I’m _not_ planning on allowing that to happen.”

_So Mycroft did threaten you before you stepped in front of the cab._   “You would think of me.” 

“I would.”

“Remember me.”

“Yes.  Until it killed me.” There is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that John means what he says, as appalling as that is to imagine.

“You are the most a man could dream of.” Sherlock has put an arm around John’s shoulder.  “You are.”

“Hmm,” John says, muffled, against Sherlock’s neck.  “Why are you asking, Sherlock.”

“Errors of omission.”

“What about them.”

“They are generally the most insidious.  What isn’t done or said in time can lead to separation just as easily as overt errors.”

John sits up a bit and rubs his head.  “I know.  We’ve gone over all that.”

“Okay.”

“We’re all right.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah.  That story _really_ got under my skin, as well.  As you can see,” John remarks, gesturing loosely at his cock.

“I suppose I might post some of my bedtime stories,” Sherlock sighs unevenly.  “For the oversexed.”  John snorts and bursts out giggling at that.  Sherlock adds, “But yours would still have a much larger following.  Particularly _among_ the oversexed.”

“Have you any idea how much I -- just -- can’t imagine my life without you?”

“So don’t.”

“I’m not.” John’s warm hands are tugging gently at the knot in Sherlock’s dressing gown.  “Where were we?  Somewhere hereabouts.”

“John.  I won’t finish.  No.”

“Oh, you will if --”

“I won’t.  No.  I -- took two codeines from your magic box.”

_“Two?”_

“Yes.”

“Sherlock.  They’re.  Hospital-strength.”

“Yes, I know.  I’m starting to feel them now.”

“I thought we had an agreement.”

“I know.”

“I can always call in a prescription.  Something else.”

“Mmm.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.  I had a bad headache earlier.  I don't intend to relativise, of course.”

“What’s happening.”

Sherlock is tired.  And the opiate is starting to hit him hard.  It surprises him, briefly, before he gives in to the soft glide of it, in his breathing.  Sherlock swallows.  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

John is now fully alert.  “Yes, love.”

“It always hurts.  Excepting once.”  He waves his hand indistinctly.

John puts his arm around Sherlock’s neck; the sound of his long sigh and the shifting of fabric is all that can be heard for a few seconds.  “What do you mean?” John finally asks.

Sherlock can’t see John’s face but he answers, “Exactly that.”

“You mean you.  You’re not enjoying it.”

“I didn’t _say_ that.”

“All along.  You didn’t.”

“John.”

"Oh, God."

"No.  It's."

“What can I change, love?”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re drifting.  You’re -- high, a bit.”

“No, I’m -- okay.” ( _Tolerance to codeine has dropped_ \-- _off the map -- clearly_ \-- _yes -- I’m sorry.  Sorry --_ )

“Tell me what I can change or try.” John licks his lips nervously.

“No, nothing.” 

“Look.  We’re not doing anything painful.  Ever.”John takes Sherlock by the arm and stares him in the face, there in the poor light.  “I’ve seen what that does to people.  To blokes.  We’re not going that way.”

“Mmmm.”

“No, listen.  If one of us gets sick.  And can't.  See?  See how it is?”  John is getting sadder now; he is rubbing his forehead, which is certainly throbbing.  “Things go wrong and you can't stop it.  Can't.  Do you think it would _wreck_ things?”

“John.  Calmly.” 

“Things go wrong, don’t they?  Can’t control it.  But it wouldn’t matter to me, I swear.  It wouldn’t matter.”

Sherlock stares at John, his teeth tightly set.  

John would rather walk straight into the sea and drown than hurt his beautiful phoenix.  And he has just told Sherlock so, with tears of distress prickling his nose.  His breath whistles quietly as he regains control of himself.

The image of John walking out into the sea is far too much for Sherlock.  He imagines, there on his side (staring past John’s bad shoulder, at the wall behind), how he would burn, completely, so that his ashes might, by chance, fall over John.  It seems beautiful, for a moment.  Then the image spreads from his heart to his stomach; _not beautiful.  No.  Horrid.  Wrong._   He realises it with a delay; his heart seems to contract, as his mind drifts to a mosaic, in Stockholm.  _The phoenix with a bouquet of snakes for a tail. (Why?  Why now?)_

He hears that he has just made a sound.  A hum, in his throat.  He hadn’t managed to stop it. 

“Love you.”  John is looking at him, petting him nervously. 

Sherlock quietly reminds his dearest person in the world to calm himself and moves closer to kiss his soft, warm lips -- to calm himself.  Something inside of him has already begun to write over the shadows of shame he’d thought he would feel, admitting to the pain, which he sees as the weakness of his own mind over his body.  _When it finally matters that they blend and not collide_ \-- _that they blend.  Mind and body._   _The body is stranded to the earth.  Unfair.  Weak among the -- physical laws.  Yet I need it, to love you.  True.  Dizzy._    Every breath seems watery and soft, now.  Sherlock’s eyes are falling closed.   _Dizzy._

He dreams of the terns in Norfolk; this time, they ascend unhindered and vanish in a quiet blur.  He wakes up very warm, with John’s strong arm slowly unwrapping from around his shoulder.  He is stretching and arching his back.  When Sherlock opens his eyes, John takes him back again.  “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.  “I was dreaming about you, you know?  All night.  And you’re here.  So good.”

***

“John, wake up, please.”

“Yeah -- is it.  Uhm.  Am I late?”

“No, no.  I’m going out.  When you’re hungry, warm up the two pots on the stove.  Paracetamol in an hour and a half.  I’ll text you.”

“Yeah, you’re.  Going?  Where are you going?”

“Errands and one minor case.”

“Okay.  What’s -- that?”

“It’s not a peacock, I assure you,” Sherlock says, setting his sketchbook upright next to the bed.  “It didn’t turn out the way I intended.  Those were supposed to be terns.”

_Yikes_.  “Oh.  It’s.  Really.  Beautiful.”  He has just remembered Alex’s remarks about Sherlock’s artwork ( _Expressive.  A lot of internal struggle in it)._

“Thank you.”

“What is it?  A dream?”

“I don’t know.”  _Liar.  Tell him._ “Well.  There’s a similar phoenix in Stockholm.  A work of institutional art, in a canteen, made entirely of broken glass and ceramic bits.  Without terns.  Obviously.”

John looks at the picture carefully.  _Terns.  Norfolk.  Or a Nordic sea?_  He is thoughtful.  “A phoenix, in Stockholm?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to go to there, with mine.”  John puts out a hand and Sherlock sits down next to him on the edge of the bed.

“Stockholm is a very attractive city.  On islands.  You would like the ports and inlets.”

“Would I get to see this phoenix?” John asks cautiously, rubbing a thumb over Sherlock’s long fingers.

“Unlikely,” Sherlock replies.  “It’s in a state-run assistance centre for addicts.”

“I see.  Stockholm was.  Uhm.  After Cambridge, but before you knew Greg?”

Sherlock’s eyes start coursing over John’s face.   _Mycroft._   “Yes.”

“This is stunning work.  Is it for me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Thank you, love.  What is today?  Oh, no.  Damn it!  It was.  A few days ago already.”

“Eight.”

“Forgetting everything.  _See_ how it is?”

“Calmly.  You’re not.”

“I love you so much.  Forgetting things all the time.  Sorry, I wanted to celebrate that.”

“So.  I’ll be gone most of the day, like yesterday.”

“Forgot it.  Hmmm?  Okay.”

“Text me later.  Don’t worry if I don’t respond right away.”

“All right, love.  Not eating anything?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Behave, soldier.”  Sherlock kisses John until he hums and smiles.  "I love you with all my heart.  I'll see you tonight."

               

_Hi Alex, have you seen this picture?  Any thoughts?  John [attachment]_

_OMG No, I’ve been in hospital.  Daunting image, TBH.  Alex N._

_I agree.  OK?  Back in London next week?  John_

_Thursday.  Only endurance tests + a change of meds, quite routine.  Thank you. Alex N._

                _OK.  BTW I still have your broken watch.  Sorry for that.  John_

_No worries of course!  I never texted you the watchmaker’s info.  I’ll take it in!  :) Stay well, Alex N._

_OK take care.  John_

 

John picks up the sketchbook and leafs through it.  It is nearly full, now.   _He'll need a new one soon.  Get one for him.  Who the hell --_ John looks through page after page of male thighs, stomachs, knees, shoulders, feet.  Damaged craniums.  Incisions.  Draped materials. _Corpses, not live models.  'But that does not mean he should be kept away from you or other things that give him pleasure.  Sketching corpses.'  Oh, God.  Medical or anatomical studies, nothing more.  Not turning himself on.  No. Oh hey, that's me.  Had better be. Not bad, not bad -- heh._


	68. It interferes

Linda is in London on errands; Sherlock has arranged for her to meet Will and Sandra.  He has asked her to come by and assess John during a visit while he sits in the living room to chat with Lestrade.  The DI has a growing number of questions and had been surprised and pleased when he’d been invited to bring all the files and consult Sherlock at Baker Street.  Lestrade has always liked the place, quite honestly. 

Now, Sherlock is gazing down at a photograph of a gunshot wound.  He grunts and starts rubbing his lip with his finger thoughtfully.  “Where was the window?” he asks.  “Ah.  Mmm...”

Lestrade reaches for the last of the glazed biscuits that Sherlock had put in front of them (Linda’s idea -- _Always leave cookies for coppers and Santas_ \--) and asks suddenly, “Wait.  Did I just hear a woman back in your bedroom?”

“You did,” Sherlock confirms. 

“Oh.  Hmph.”

“I’ll introduce you to her afterward, if you like.”

“Nah, no way.  Not my thing."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and drops the photograph on the table.   “Lestrade, please.  One of John’s friends from his Bart’s years.  Her former partner was John’s late friend, Sergeant James Barrows.” 

“Oh, right.  All right.  Yeah.  Sorry.”

Sherlock exhales impatiently.

“Sorry.”  Lestrade clears his throat and glances about the room.

Soon the doll-like nurse herself makes an appearance in the kitchen.  She puts the kettle on and peers in at them, teetering back and forth in her ( _obviously compensatory_ ) high heeled shoes.  She comes closer.  “John would like some tea, Sherlock.  Over the toaster, right?”

“Yes.  Give him the decaffeinated one but remove the label from the teabag.”

“Will do.  Sorry, just popping into your conversation.  Linda Snow.”  She approaches Lestrade and sticks out her hand; he stands eagerly and shakes it as he looks her over.

“A registered nurse, who tried to stab me with scissors when we met.  Naturally, I approve.  Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock says.

“It’s Greg,” he says emphatically, to them both. 

“Yeah.  My Mum has a picture of you on her fridge door.  Identity theft prevention tips.”  Linda smiles at him and then says to Sherlock, “So, you just told a DI about my homicidal tendencies, after you promised not to let on.”

“Everyone has homicidal tendencies toward Sherlock at some point or another,” Lestrade remarks.  “You’re safe with me.”

“Good to know,” she says.  She winks at Sherlock and goes back to the kitchen, where the kettle has just clicked off.   Lestrade is following the progress of her little calves with his eyes and rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. 

 _Vulgar gaping.  Excellent._   Sherlock waits for Linda to go back into his room and close the door behind her before saying, “One son, six years of age, and she is currently in mourning for her ex-partner.  That’s temporary, of course.”

“The son isn’t temporary, though, I take it?”

“That he is six years of age is temporary, obviously,” Sherlock replies.

“Do you _hear_ yourself?” Lestrade exclaims.

“Clearly.  Now we will discuss the five most important reasons the forensics team was wrong about the body in these photographs.  The shot could not have come from outdoors, if the victim was seated in this chair....”

 _Of comparable intelligence.  Both of acceptable appearance.  He would never raise a hand against her.  She would admire his work.  He has the means to look after her properly.  She would know how to manage the care of his elderly Mum.  The boy would have a powerful role model in his life.  A logical union._ Sherlock is confident that the idea he has just planted in Lestrade’s and Linda’s heads will prove hard to kill.  And that neither of them are likely to have homicidal tendencies, to that extent.  

Lestrade visits John for some time to make sure he isn’t being starved to death and Linda helps Sherlock in the kitchen with the beginnings of what he intends to give John for supper.  The closest descriptor, they decide, is _goulash-like_.

“You’re a keeper,” she says, bumping Sherlock with her hip.  “I’d no idea you cooked.”

“I’d no idea either, as you can plainly see.”

“Oh come off it, he’s worth it,” she says. “John’s doing great, you know?  When you said he was easily disturbed, well, I’ve seen him when he locks up and doesn’t talk to anyone, really, like for days.  It’s just scary to watch.  But look.  Warmth, a lot of it.  And love.  Love can save people.”  Her mind seems to have drifted to Jim, and her round eyes are filling with tears.  She looks away.  Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to that so he bites the side of his tongue instead.  Soon she has got through her thoughts and emerges with a brave little nod.  “Yeah, well.  Will’s a sweetie.  Sandra, too, you know.  I haven’t met -- Marvin the skin doctor.  We need to get John back on his feet so they can start looking for offices.  I’m going to be looking for a flat in London soon so I thought I’d do double duty on the real estate part of things, yeah.  With Sandra.  What d’you think?”

“Sensible, no doubt.” Sherlock hisses and puts his thumb in his mouth.

“Burned yourself?  Look, I have three thousand in cash.  Let me pay you something back.  It _really_ bothers me.”

“I thought the reasons it shouldn’t bother you were well-established.  Don’t mention it again.”

“Uhm.  But.”

“Good girl.  Oh, I think they’ve finished,” Sherlock says, glancing back toward his bedroom door, which opens several seconds afterward.  Now he can hear that they’re talking about football, and Lestrade is making plans to come over and watch a game with John in several days’ time.  Sherlock makes a note to be out.  Lestrade has John at his side.  John’s hand trails along the wall as he goes; Linda smiles at him proudly.  “There he is,” she says.  “I knew you’d have to come check out all the smells in a minute.”

John asks Lestrade and Linda to stay on for dinner but Linda insists she should get back to Virginia Water; Lestrade decides that he should see her to Waterloo station, to which she can find no reasonable objection, other than the fact that Sherlock has to finish working on the goulash-like meal on his own.  He claims he’s not bothered ( _Lestrade eschewed a proper meal to drive her about in his squad car -- very good_ ).  Greg looks relieved, even grateful.  Before she leaves, Linda pulls a CD out of her purse and hands it to Sherlock with a wink. “Almost forgot,” she whispers.  “A couple with Steven.  And a few more, to _die_ for.  _Showers_.”

Sherlock has turned his face away.  “Wh - at?” John asks.

“Nah, nothing,” she says.  “Going through Jim’s pictures.”

John comments on it, once they are gone, as he takes a chair in the kitchen.  “Photos of me and Jim, there?”

“Yes, apparently so,” Sherlock answers.  _Steven?_

“Good.  Heh.  And it was _not_ accidental that they were both here at the same time.”

“Why, should it be?  Would it be more _romantic_?” Sherlock asks.

“No, okay.  Makes sense.  But.  You, matchmaking, I mean.  Jesus Christ.”

“Perhaps.”

“Find someone for Marv.  He’s having a hard time.”

“Molly Hooper.  He likes horrors, doesn’t he.”

“Are you being rude?”

Sherlock turns, slighted.  “Why would it be rude to introduce Molly to a successful dermatologist with a gruesome sense of humour?  Have you ever _listened_ to her jokes, John?”

“Why are you giving me decaffeinated tea, by the way?  I heard that.  No wonder I’m so out of sorts,” John says.  “What’s on?”

“We made you some goulash.” Sherlock has bent down to kiss John and is sniffing John’s cheek.  “I ordered too many bell peppers recently.”

“She thought Greg was all right,” John says with a smirk.

“And kissed you, quite near your mouth.”

“Right there, yeah.”

“The scent of her lanolin-based face cream is unmistakable, even across the table.”  Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  “You’re eating in fifteen minutes.”

“ _We_ are. ”

“Mmhmm.  Brown rice or rye macaroni?”

“The rice,” John answers.  "Rye macaroni?  Why aren't you eating?"

"Later.”

***

_Pulled a fire alarm, evacuated building, placed camera in room, used confusion, set a trap.  Adultress exposed on film & life insurance policy looks suspicious.  Security arsehat almost got his teeth knocked out.  Let me in after a row and I took photos._

_Poison didn’t work caused vomiting unknown substance like fertiliser, esophagus and palate burned, some blistering visible on tongue - stabbing came later according to S.  Really sad.  Suffered a long time._

_Remarkable when he works but afterward rushes the fuck off and doesn’t give a sodding shit that I have to come back and its two in the fucking morning and I am stuck in L with a dead mobile._

Sherlock puts John’s old case notebook aside and folds his hands in front of his lips.  He and John are enjoying a fire, sitting across from each other in their chairs.  John’s eyes are closed and he is rubbing his forehead with his thumb.

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm?”

“Are you familiar with a publication called _Consumer Protection Research and Review_?”

“Of course, yeah, what about it?”

“I’ll be doing some work for them, in fact I’ve begun writing up a testing schedule for --“

“Really?”

“-- Polymers and oxides.  Some of it will be done here, but most of it will be carried out by others, in laboratories, one in Ireland, another at -- Cambridge.”

“Oh.  Good, love.”

“You don’t share my enthusiasm.”

“I do.  But.  You won’t have time for cases,” John says, pointing at the notebook.

“Have you seen what’s happening at the Yard?  Lestrade is at his wit’s end.”

“Why?”

“Mmm.  Essentially where I was three months ago.  Idiots.” Sherlock has started drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

“What?”

“It’ll pass but for now there’s not much I can do, given their approach.  Superintendent Barry Allen.  Wants to sink a leaking ship of fools.  His choice.”

“But.  Love, uhm.”

Sherlock looks at John carefully.   “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, headache.  So, you’re going to do some -- well, chemical research?”

“Back to my roots.  In more ways than one, it appears.  Boring?” Sherlock is scanning John’s face again.

“What?  No, of course not.  Of course it isn’t.  Listen, you have so many possibilities, why not.”

“The article about C02 poisoning that you corrected some time ago was accepted for publication, by the way.  Thanks to your editorial contributions, no doubt.” Sherlock has turned his mercury eyes toward the fireplace.

“I’m not surprised. Well done.”  John smiles and holds out an arm.  “Come here, yeah, on me, why not.  Come.  Hmmm, you’re heavy.”

It feels fantastic to be held and petted but Sherlock’s curiosity is getting the better of him and he finally asks, against John’s shoulder, “You’ve never mentioned Steven, from Afghanistan.”

“Wh --“

“Linda said she has photographs of him on that CD, among others.  She mentioned it in passing as if I would know of him.”

“Not much to say.”

Sherlock frowns.  John takes a breath and says, “Look, he was a friend who got shot in the throat and sternum while I was in hospital.  Didn’t pull through.  Should have.  He was the best of all of us.  I don’t want to go into it.”  John is very tense.  Sherlock raises his head and looks him over.

“Okay.  Calmly, soldier.”

“What is wrong with me.  God, it’s been more than seven years.  And.”

“I understand.”

“I think you do, yeah.”  John pets Sherlock for some time.

“Okay.  Your head is hurting you.  Thighs, too, certainly.” Sherlock stands up slowly from John’s lap. “Come, John.  I’m putting you to bed.  I have some writing to do tonight.”

“Hmmm, yeah.”  John grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls himself up from his chair. He looks distracted.  “So glad to have you, you've no idea.”

***

_High heel tap stuck in grate did not belong to victim.  Missing shoe found in bin two blocks away.  Jealous over promotion at work.  Boyfriend helped?_

_Suffocated by metal band.  Magnetic?  Everyone got it wrong except S but he might have been more gracious about accepting thanks.  Embarrassing to clean up after him everywhere.  Hire dipl. service retiree to help out, clean up.  I’m no f’ing diplomat._

_Lestrade said today that their success rate would be a third lower without S and I believe him.  He’s bloody brilliant._

_An ugly flowerbed.  Fresh tulips.  Were potted!  Diff. soil around the bulbs.  Recently planted.  Body underneath new flowerbed.  Of course S noticed the soils in spite of the rain.  He's amazing._

***

“Sherlock?  Here?  No.  Right.”

 

_Where are you?_

_Out for a few hours.  Are you all right?  SH_

_I’m good.  Dreamt of you.  I love you._

_I love you_

_No punctuation or sig?  Suspicious._

_I love you, John.  SH_

***

Sherlock slips in at around six in the evening.  He comes to John, where he is seated at the living room table with his laptop, and leans over him for a long, warm kiss.  He goes off to his bedroom and changes into a dressing gown.  When he comes out, he is carrying a file folder in his hand, which he sets on the living room table.

“John, your professional opinion,” he says.

“Okay, on what?” John asks, pushing his computer over a bit.

“Assess this patient.” 

“Cleaning staff?”

“Mmm?”

“You got this from a cleaning lady?  This _should_ be confidential.  Hmm...Thomas Barker?  Okay.  What have we.  Got.”  John bites his lips thoughtfully.  “Uhm.  Okay.  Young for that, how...hmm.  Genetically predisposed, maybe.  Is this man a heavy drinker?”

“No.”

“Overweight?  No...not...at all.  175...hmm.  Should monitor that, though.  Consider preventative removal sometime.  Do a biopsy.”  John flips several pages back and forth and glances through them.  “Pretty deep.  Yeah, clusters limited to the colon, looks like.  Fortunately for him, it’s the beginnings, not terribly serious at this stage, but more of them might come along and, well, there’s always a risk of polyps turning malignant.  Over time.  That’s not a rule, they won’t necessarily, just a risk.  Yeah.  But he should be monitored and consider whatever changes to his diet and lifestyle he’s willing to make to -- well, basically, it’s still not too late to slow down and live more healthily.” John sniffs.  “You know.  Jim might have, yeah.  Taken care of himself all those years.”  He rubs his chin sadly.  “Damn it.  Can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Mmm.”

John sighs and shakes his head as if to clear it.  “It’s all about.  Yeah.  Preventative diet and lifestyle.  It matters a lot.  _Speaking_ of which.  My love.  A proper date?  I could use a walk after being penned up so long.  A nice place not too far from here.  Here, take this.  Shouldn’t have someone’s hospital records sitting around.”  John gathers up the papers and stuffs them back into the file.  He notices that Sherlock is watching his hands closely as he does so.  “Who is Thomas Barker,” he asks.

“Nobody of --“

“Sherlock.”  There is already an edge in John’s voice.

“He is a near-sighted, left-handed, affable, recently-married white-collar homosexual, originally from Doncaster,” Sherlock replies.  “Accounts receivable, Anglican, writes with a nicked biro, has a piercing laugh, wears horrid suede footwear and -- ”

“Who.”  John slaps the file onto the tabletop.

Sherlock looks down at it for several seconds.  John has crossed his arms. 

“You see,”  Sherlock says, in a lilting Yorkshire accent, “I’d rather we kept this away from my brother, as long as we can.”  

Because Sherlock believes (quite mistakenly) that he has managed to do so.

“Assessed recently,” Sherlock adds, carefully.

“That --” John’s mouth slackens and drops open.  His tongue is working over several thoughts at once.

“Yes.”

“Why did you go in, in the first place?”

“Pain."

"Pain?  What sort of pain, love -- oh."

"Yes.  Other issues.  Genes.”

In the absence of an easy reply, John looks at Sherlock carefully.  He has gone pasty; he has folded his hands behind his back.  John’s head is pounding.  “I see.”

“It interferes.”

 _You block up and it hurts you._ “Hmmm.  I understand,” John says, simply.  He is struggling to stay objective.  _Beautiful creature, it’s all in your head.  You’re afraid._ He puts his arms around Sherlock and kisses every bit of shoulder, clavicle and neck that he can reach while holding him there.  “We’ll take care of everything, work it out.  We will.”

“Of course.”

“Stay on top of it.”

“Obviously.”

“Uhm.”  John clears his throat.  “Is that why you were photographed in a ring?  You were out having tests dressed as this 'Thomas Barker'?”

“Yes.  And it got stuck on my finger.”

“Right.”

“Later, I took off my glove several times to monitor the swelling before deciding to have the band cut off.”

“Yeah.”  John sighs and looks away.   _Mystery solved._

“And that is how I came to be your husband, in the eyes of _The Daily Mirror, The Independent, The Sun_ and several international on-line news platforms, as well as Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook, among others.  I still receive congratulatory messages and death threats over it daily.”

“Wh --”

“What _are_ we waiting for, in fact, John?”  Sherlock drops the file back down on the table and looks at him pointedly.  

“Uhm.  Uh.  What?” John gapes.

Sherlock holds his eyes and smiles wryly.  “Let me dress.”

“Wh -- why?”

“You wanted to go out,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Oh.  Hah.  Yeah.  Agreeing?  Now _that’s_ worrying.”

“Possibly.”

“You could just go in this dressing gown.” John steps closer and unknots it.  He reaches inside.  “Or, we could stay in.”

“Sorely tempted, on both counts.”  Sherlock swishes off to his bedroom to dress.  

John watches him go, and then strides to the bathroom; he locks himself in and splashes cold water into his eyes and nose.  _Stop.  We’ll be all right.  We will.  Take care of everything.  Stop this._   When he comes out, he nearly runs into Sherlock in the hallway, and immediately accuses him of sabotage.   “If you’d really wanted to go out, you wouldn’t have made yourself so _insanely_ undressable.  Not fair.”

“Your belief system surrounding _fairness_ continues to confound me,” Sherlock remarks lightly, tucking one of his cuffs into his jacket sleeve with his long fingers.  He leans forward to kiss John’s cheek. _So it was cold water.  I’ve upset him._    “Ready?”

“Okay, no.  Need to dress,” John mumbles.  “Have to wear a jacket, now.  Out of black socks.  Down to the weirder ones you brought over, you know, Christmas presents and.  Hmmm.  Look.  At you.  My --”

“Your what.”

John breaks into a warm grin.  “Man-in-the-German,” he says, to which Sherlock responds with a small smile of his own. 

John is woolly between the eyes when they go out into the cold night; wearing a cap bothers him but they only have to walk for nine minutes, Sherlock points out.  He mentally revises it in a moment to sixteen. 

“Good to be outside,” John mumbles, though his head is humming.  “Need to go back to work in a few days.  Get used to being out.  Yeah.  Sorry, love.  Need a minute.”  John sets a hand against a nearby wall.

“Take my arm.”

***

All evening, as they talk and eat, Sherlock observes John’s face very carefully.  If need be, he plans to call a cab and take the rest of the food to finish at home.  But apart from signs of fatigue and pain Sherlock is also watching for something else.  Jokes about the ring and their tabloid marriage aside, he has been uneasy about John’s reaction to his medical file.  He is looking for anything which suggests that John is put off. 

He sees nothing of the sort.  In fact, John is following his every gesture so keenly that it is difficult to chew calmly and swallow.  Sherlock, meanwhile, keeps his expression as neutral as he can without appearing distracted or rude; he has noted that they are being photographed from outdoors. 

When they come home they kiss messily and grope through each other’s clothes as soon as they can close a door behind themselves; John is pressed against the wall, panting and growling in the hallway, though dizzy, as Sherlock tears into his buttons unasked.  “John -- your -- head but I want you.”  “ _Damn_ my head, need you so bad,” John tells him, between kisses, his eyes flashing, “and I want _all_ of you.”  Sherlock pulls him by the hand to his room and pushes him down on his knees.  He is taking John deep this time, with a slow, hard grind, biting into his neck and stroking John’s thick cock as if it were his own, between their legs, until he feels his soldier shake and explode with a dark, obscene groan.

John’s heart is racing with love.  They share a bath together afterward; he washes and rubs Sherlock’s pale back and shoulders and tells him a story about what he plans to do the next time they are on a rooftop, alone.  

Later, Sherlock finally comes to a fuller understanding, as he phrases it, about why John likes to be sucked and fingered at once, so much.  John pets him and hugs him, happy and proud as only an unselfish lover can be, to have got him off _that bloody properly_.  Sherlock feels so well loved that he is moved and hides his face in John’s shoulder.

Tonight, John feels he has come to a fuller understanding of his own, about the workings of his man’s beautiful yet somewhat tortured and complicated head.   _It interferes.  It can't interfere, anymore._   And he thinks he might have an idea. 

Sherlock is crawling into bed behind him and putting a hand over his heart; John grins to himself as he imagines, there in the dark:   _a present, for you, sexy, gorgeous phoenix.  And not chocolates, my love, oh no._

***

_No accident!  Dr. John Watson, 44, gets to grips with his strong-armed companion, detective Sherlock Holmes, 41.  The crime-bashing and utterly smashing twosome stepped out for a quiet dinner.  Watson is recovering from a dangerous run-in on the street with a London taxi.  (More online!)  Convalescing in style, John Watson works a pulse-raising look!  We love the cheeky charm of tweed in that herringbone blazer paired with a moss-green tie.  Add a crisp white shirt and we are in a spin, too!  Photo:  Eye-popping striped socks peeking out of our favourite crime blogger’s brown wingtip brogues.  Now that’s called style on the mend!  Soft, stand-out scarves have us swooning, too, Mr. Holmes.  This season, gents in London pull on cashmere or merino to feel the low-key luxe that’s all over fashion radars right now.  (Lookbook here!)_


	69. The violinist

                _Wrong man under arrest.  Farce.  How are you feeling?  SH_

_OK.  Do you have another suspect?_

                _26-year-old best friend.  SH_

_Disgusting.  Have you caught him?_

_Warrant issued, reviewing footage and purchases.  Miss you.  SH_

_Inexplicable smell of onions in the air.  Manufacture of seasonings locally.  Bizarre.  SH_

_Signed for shopping.  French biscuits and wine???_

_Peckish while clicking.  SH_

Sherlock is away in suburban Birmingham, where he is helping the local police unravel the motive in a double murder case, and John needs to occupy himself.  He is going back to work in two days and wants to be in good form.  Or at least keep up appearances.  He is in his flat, surrounded by a few boxes; he stretches out on his bed to rest after packing some of his clothes into a military surplus duffel bag.  It is still painful to bend forward or have his head down for more than a few seconds, so his progress is exasperatingly slow on moving house.  Or even moving things from a shelf to a box.  He sees he will need help with the rest; fortunately, he owns very little, aside from clothing, books and a few kitchen implements, after having left the entire material ballast of his married life behind to be picked apart, sold or given to charity.  He prefers to keep it light.

***

                _In custody.  Found shopping.  Claims does not remember killing best friend + wife.  SH_

_Bought designer coat and shoes with money from victims' wallets.  SH_

_Shithead!  And they had the wrong guy???_

***

In the late evening, Sherlock rings John, who has finally gone for a shower and climbed into bed, boxes still hanging open on the floor around his small table.

“Where are you, John?”

“In bed, my love.”

 _Street noise._   _Not our bed._   “Don’t pack, Bruno will do it.”

John smiles.  “All right, just getting started.  Who is Bruno?”

“A professional mover accused of smuggling, an interesting misunderstanding over a hollow statue.  Owes me a favour."  

“And where are you now?”

“Also in bed, trying to warm myself, but it’s pointless.  I’ll have to dress.”

“Hmmm.  Not fair.”

“You’d _like_ to have icy feet and knees against yours?  Doubtful.”

"I would.   I have a story for you.  Try to warm you up.”

“Oh?”

“Since you’re sort of far away I decided that in this one you will be, too, at least at first.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve been to Paris, right?  One of the few cities in Europe we’ve both been to, I think.”

“Yes.  One of three.  We’ll make amends.”

“Good, so imagine a dark street.  Like in Montmartre, a single lane with sidewalks, one-way.  Fortunately for me, a narrow one.  You’ll see why.”

“Okay.”

“So are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve just come home from a tour and I’m all-in and I decide to spend a month abroad for a change from London.  I take a flat in that narrow street, in Paris.  But I don’t know anyone there, and I’m starting to get bored and tired of it.  It’s nasty there at night.  Noisy.  It stinks like lamb meat and mouldy cheese from the places below and when I can stand to have my window open, all I hear are people shouting, laughing, fighting and carrying on until four in the morning and I rarely sleep well without plugging my ears.  Sometimes I go and join them.  But the only thing that keeps me sane in all that noise is a violinist playing, behind a shuttered window right across the street from mine.  Day and night, at random times.  I like to sit and read at my front window so I can hear it.  Or I open my bedroom window and listen to it at night when I can’t sleep and it’s like a nightingale in a forest of howling wolves.  And the music is often the last thing I hear before I drift off.  The thing is, though, I never see the player.  At first I even think it's someone listening to records.  Not records, just.  Yeah, and I start to try to guess who it might be, based on the style and the songs.  Sometimes I imagine it’s a prim, older lady, out of practise.  Other times I think it’s a child who’s pissed off and doesn’t want to practise, hard to say.  Or maybe a sensual curvy, fiery-haired woman who is practising long, sweeping songs in front of her man.  To turn him on.  Topless, in garters.  From the sound of it, she might.  It’s bloody sexy.  I even wonder if there are several musicians there, a family of them, because the character of the playing is so changeable.  So, yeah.  One evening, it’s sticky and stuffy, very hot, before a thunderstorm that has suddenly blown in, and I am sitting near the windowsill, in the dark, looking out over the street.  There’s something edgy in the air before the lightning starts.  And this time, the music is intoxicating, and slow.  Everyone is exhausted from the heat and going back to their houses like -- snails, because it’s about to pour.  I take off my clothes.  I kind of feel like going down to the street and getting rained on a little.  Nobody would care, probably.  And suddenly the shutters across the way creak open, and I see a tall, dark-haired, exotic, gorgeous creature with wild eyes and pale skin, in a thin silk dressing gown sort of thrown on, last-minute, and _he_ \-- he -- leans out the window to look up at the sky.  And lights a cigarette and smokes.  I hate cigarettes.  But for some reason, just watching the way he moves, and his energy, I want to be over there, and I don’t even what I would do or say.  I’m not even dressed.  Then again, neither is he.  Maybe I would tell him to put it out and kiss me, instead.  And see what happens next.  And I think, damn it.  What the hell am I on about.  I don’t even know who he is.  So I just look.  Well, soon looking isn’t going to be enough.  I can already feel that.  He is lean and long all over.  He stands back and lights another cigarette and I see that he is completely naked, that dressing gown is hanging open and I can’t help myself.  I watch him smoke again.  I’m getting hard now, just looking at him and imagining what I would say, how to begin.  Then it starts to rain like mad, and the man steps back into his dark flat and closes the shutters behind him.  But not entirely.  From across the way, I can still see a little bit through the window, and he is pacing, talking to himself, thinking, that gown nearly falling off of him, and finally, he picks up his violin, and plays.  And I realise that _he_ is one I’ve been hearing.  All along.  Not a woman.  And I’m gone.  I slam my window shut and go for a shower and all I can think about is my bloody gorgeous, talented neighbour.  And I have to have a long, hard wank over him.  Over a complete stranger.  Are you listening, love?”

“Yes, John.”

“Soon it gets to where I pull up a table closer to the window so I can listen to him while I read and eat dinner, but I’m actually waiting for him to open that window.  I want to see him again and make sure it’s really him playing, not just one of a few in a family of mad musicians.  He opens it to smoke and observe people sometimes, but not often enough.  He is so bloody bohemian.  Wanders about naked, or nearly so, talking on the phone, drinking wine, or tea, waving it about.  And he doesn’t care that he’s slowly, but surely driving me mad across the way.”

“Entirely deliberate,” Sherlock interjects. 

“What?  Oh, yeah, he’s tormenting me, absolutely.  Yeah.  So I decide I have to say something.  The next time he leans out of his window, I lean out of mine and greet him, in my vile French, and he stares at me like I’m speaking tongues in church.” (That metaphor seems to have appealed to Sherlock; he snorts loudly.)  “And he answers me, in the most stunning, deep baritone voice.  Something posh in it, in total contrast to his wild looks.  He is English.  But I can’t say he reminds me of anyone from back home, at all.  He seems to belong right there, in Montmartre.  I want to tell him that his playing is the only decent sound on the street, though I already have my doubts about that.”

“Why?”

“His voice is about to take first place, there.  ‘Your playing is amazing,’ I say, and he looks surprised.  ‘Do you think so?’ he asks.  And I tell him, ‘Yeah, extraordinary.’  And he smiles and says, ‘That’s not what people normally say.’  And I ask, ‘What do people normally say?’”

 _“Casse toi!”_ Sherlock says.  “Okay.  John, tell me the rest in person.”

“What?  Sure?”

“Very sure.  My brother’s teletap minions are undeserving of your stories, and I just heard a courtesy click.”

“Understood.  Okay.”

“I’ll be home around four, perhaps later.”

“All right.”

“Goodnight, John.”

***

_Thinking of you._

_Two with apnea in next room.  Why is murdering snorers still illegal in the UK?  SH_

_Dreaming stupid shit earlier.  Miss you._

_How are you feeling?  OK?  SH_

_OK.  Really wish you were here._

_I miss holding your hand while I kiss you goodnight._

_I love you, John.  SH_

_Is the violinist me?  SH_

_Of course it is._

_OK.  Goodnight.  SH_

***

When he comes back to Baker Street, Sherlock finds John reading in his armchair; he drops his newspaper; his entire face lights up.  “Hey, love.  Good to have you.”  He stands up to meet Sherlock in the middle of the room.  He kisses Sherlock's neck and puts an arm around his back.

It is a perfect welcome.  “Mmmm.  John.  Tell me first thing.  The rest.”

“What?”

“The story.”

“Just, here?”

“Yes.  Tell me.  Why not.”

“Okay.  Well, sit down, maybe.”

“Later.  Just tell me.”

“We’ve spoken once.  And then.  Yeah.  Take off your jacket, maybe, yeah.  So.  We don’t meet in the street."

"No?"

"Not at all.  It's odd that we live so close and yet our paths never really cross."

"Mmm."

"I am becoming more and more fascinated by his habits and his playing.  The man across the way, you know.”

“Yes.”

“One day, when I come home in the evening, I am surprised to see his windows thrown open and a party across the way.  Music, wine, dancing.  My neighbour is a charming host, as well.  I try not to stare at them.  Particularly at him.  Dressed impeccably, elegant, nothing like his usual self."

"No?"

"Well, because he actually dressed, for one.  He is standing back and watching his guests, and he dances with some of them.  Women and men, both.  A fantastic dancer.”

“Really?”  Sherlock has wrapped an arm around John’s waist and is rubbing his nose through John’s hair.

“Yeah.  So I go about my evening.  Sit down to read.  It's late when I get up and go to close my windows and I see my neighbour, alone, dancing about the room, to music that I can hardly hear.  I have no excuse to be there, staring like an idiot.  And when he looks straight over at me, it’s bloody embarrassing.  But he doesn’t stop.  In fact, he seems to know exactly what he’s doing to me.  Soon the music ends and he closes the shutters.  I can even see that he is smiling, out into the darkness.  Not at the darkness.  At me.  Full of yourself, I think.  So I have a choice to make.”

“Which is?”

“I either admit that this is all affecting me or I shut the damned windows tight until my lease runs out and I go back to London.  I try both.  And neither of them give me any peace.  It’s like I’m possessed.  Maybe I am.  I’m pretty sure I am.  I go about like that.  One night, when I am down in the street, coming home, I see him.  He is standing at his door, with a long key in his hand, and as soon as he notices me he freezes and I see something completely different.  In fact, he is not as arrogant and cocky, face to face.   When he opens the lock, he sees that I want to turn away and he pulls me inside by the arm and closes the door behind us.  We are standing there in the darkness of a courtyard, sort of staring at each other.  It’s like both of us know why we are there, though actually, I don’t.  But I’m letting him stare down at me like that.  It is extremely hot.  I have no clue what he wants but I think I want it anyway.  It’s madness.  Complete insanity.  But it feels bloody good the way he’s looking at me.  And I tell him, ‘I don’t know who you are.  I don’t know your name.  We know nothing about each other.’  So I think.  And he starts to talk.  He tells me exactly who I am.  Who he is.  At some point, he has wrapped his arms around me.  I haven’t even seen it happen.  And it is terrifying and fascinating.”

“What happens then?” Sherlock asks.  His voice is even darker than usual from lack of sleep.  Dry air in the train.  Desire.

“We.  Go upstairs and have mad sex.  Or just start solving crimes together.”

“Both, preferably.”

“If I met you another way.  Hmmm.”

“Variables.  No sense in indulging in speculation.”

“Just a story.”

“I want you as you are.”

“That’s nice, love.  Well, but you don’t know what I imagined as the ending to my story.”

“Sex with the man at the window, overlooking your empty flat, as a metaphor of change, and you deciding you’ll live with him in Montmartre.  Am I wrong?” Sherlock asks.

“Decent ending.  Not bad at all.”

“You’ve been packing at your flat.  Please don’t strain yourself when you’re planning to go back to work.  You’ll give yourself headache needlessly.  Out of obduracy, in fact.” 

“Hah.  All right, then.”  John looks at Sherlock.  _Something is off._   “Hey, beautiful.  What’s happening.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “They wouldn’t let me close to the interrogation of the suspect.  Not a coincidence.  Just like in Sheffield, and at the Yard, more often than not.”

“Hard to say, love.  Is anyone actually capable of steering the way the police choose to work with you?” John straightens his back and licks his lips a bit.

Sherlock looks at John closely.  He can see stress around his eyes and mouth.  He decides he won’t bother him on the subject of work with incompetent sergeants.  And he won’t air out his observations about how his work seems to be changing.  _Already.  Too soon._  There is no point in shaking up John, now, when he has just told a remarkable and very flattering story about him.   _And he has noticed my dancing._   He puts out his arms and pulls John to his chest.  _Seduce him._

“So.  In Paris,” he purrs.  “I tell you who I am and it is terrifying and fascinating, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would I fascinate _you_ , a man of experience?”

“Because.  A man, like me.  Bloody hard in your trousers.  Wanting it.”

“And why would that terrify you?  Soldier?”

“Doesn’t,” John says.

Sherlock shivers.  “Even that I want to take you to bed, as soon as I have you in my arms?  Like now?”

“Hmmm.”

“Undress yourself, John.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Take them off.”

“Touch me.  Yeah, oh -- Jesus.  Need to sit down.  You’re -- “

Sherlock backs John to the sofa; he is all over him with his lips, unbuttoning his shirt.  His mouth feels impatient, as though he cannot decide whether to speak, lick, or kiss John.  John loves it.  “I can’t sleep without you.  It’s mad,” Sherlock says, his tongue flicking over John’s nipples, his breath tickling the skin all around them.  “When I can’t feel you there I have nightmares that I can’t find you.  I don’t care for it.  Kiss me, John, I don’t know what I’m saying.”  Sherlock reaches down and pulls open his trousers, taking John's hand by the wrist. John reaches in and tugs out Sherlock’s cock. They return each other's kisses. Freed from fantasy, and made real. Each is changed -- becoming warmer, wetter -- or harder. _Bloody fucking good, so good --_ John feels Sherlock’s fingers all over his chest and arms.  He seems desperate to feel everything at once.  John knows what that means.  _To need everything.  To want to climb in.  A fall right into someone else’s feelings.  Right in the heart. Where fingers, tongues and cocks can’t touch.  And even a deep hard fuck isn't enough.   Because the body can only do so much, when the heart gets close to an explosion -- in adrenaline, love, fucking in a fever -- fuck, I love him -- fuck -- he’s all mine --_   “On me, want to feel -- “ John moans, “-- you -- gorgeous phoenix, I love you.  Hmmm, your fingers.  Oh, God.  Mouth.  Sherl -- oh.  Hmm --“


	70. He has empathy

Sherlock’s phone buzzes on the kitchen table, next to his hand.  He puts down a glass dropper and swipes the screen with his knuckle.

“Yes?”

“Sherlock, Sophie Kendrick.”

“Good evening.”

“Sorry for the late hour.  Uh, do you know about what happened with Alex?”

Sherlock sits up in his chair and holds the phone closer to his ear.  “In what regard?”

“He felt faint at a party and was taken to hospital in Linz.”

"When."

"A few days ago, I think on the seventh."

“I see.”

“There was a former EMT in the room who recognised he wasn’t drunk.”

“Where is he now?”

“They ran tests and he’s been discharged.  At home right now.  Oh, they changed his medication recently, as if that’s enough.  I wonder if that set things off, really.”

“Has his arrival date changed?”

“No, it’s the same.  He’ll probably need help at the airport, that’s the reason I’m calling.  He would never ask.  Could you?  I’ve been called away to Scotland.”

“Of course.  I’ll call.”

“No, he won’t answer now.  Try texting.  Again, sorry about the late call.” 

“Thank you.”

Sherlock rings off and wipes down his fingers and phone.  He decides to look in on John, who has already turned in for the night. 

(He had spent the evening with Lestrade, watching _Blade Runner_ , after they’d decided the offsides plays in the football match had got too frequent for their liking.  Sherlock had closed himself in his bedroom with his laptop for the first hour, emerging only when he’d heard a promising debate going on about whether or not the former police operative in the film is an android like those he is hunting down; he’d settled into his armchair, off to the side, mainly to watch John.) 

“I’ve seen this,” Sherlock mumbles, omitting that he knows _Blade Runner_ well, likes it and is wholly unable to watch the death of the last replicant, Roy, without -- _being slightly moved by it._

“Okay, so is Deckard a replicant?” Lestrade asks him.  “I pretty much agree with John.  Human.”

“Ambiguous.  But he is most likely a replicant,” Sherlock replies, steepling his fingers. “His colleague, Gaff, spitefully, or perhaps helpfully, signals that some of his memories may be planted, through those little figures that he leaves about, the last of which is a signal to Deckard in the form of the unicorn, matching a fancy of his that he is unlikely to have revealed to anyone.  Well, unless Gaff is also a replicant and shares the implanted memory.”

“Are you sure?” John asks.  “I’ve always thought he’s human.  He falls in love with Rachael, he has empathy, you know.  Maybe Gaff just has a nervous habit of making figures.  That guy’s sketchy in general.”

“No.  Why would Gaff remark that Deckard had done a ‘man’s’ job?  Why the choice of word?  Because of the difficulty?  That he works _like_ a man, as though that is a compliment?  From such a laconic character, not accidental, surely.  Spiteful, again.”

“Well --“ Lestrade stutters, not having been prepared for a detailed debate.  "He was a cop --"

"His memories of his previous career might be an illusion.  Planted."

"Like, all planted?  No, there's too much.  I mean, he's the best at the Voight-Kampff testing because of experience," John protests. "And they wouldn't have brought him back in for these four if he didn't already have a track record."

“He knows what to look for, perhaps.  Why do the police even tolerate a replicant among them?” Sherlock continues, quickly.  “Or, _do they_ , in fact, tolerate the replicant operative?  Why do they let him go his own way at the end?  Is it really freedom, or does he merely have a limited life span and they know it?  It seems that Deckard is in danger of being retired, himself, once he is no longer useful.  I think those are _far_ more essential points.”

Lestrade has got slightly red in the cheeks. 

John has gone stiff. 

Sherlock glances at them both and exhales.  “If that's unpalatable, go on assuming Deckard is human, jaded, and has taken up with an attractive machine.  More romantic, perhaps.”

Sherlock stands and leaves them to continue watching the film in silence; he goes to his room and closes the door behind him.

“Shit,” John mumbles, after a minute, rubbing his forehead.

“What was that all about?” Lestrade whispers.

“Look.  What the hell is going on overhead.  With this Barry Allen.”

“No external consultation by independents, unless formally authorised by Allen for a particular case.  Stats are dipping.”  Lestrade sighs and grunts. “Crashing.  The press will be onto us soon, I reckon.  A matter of weeks or months at the most.”

John clears his throat.  “He knows?”

“Yeah, he knows.  Pisses him off.”

“Damn it.”

"Yeah."

"That's why you were going over those files here, with him."

"Yeah."

They stare at the telly in silence for several minutes.

“Change of subject,” Lestrade says.

“Hmm.”

“Linda.”

“Yeah?”

“Were you ever, you know.” Lestrade raises his eyebrows a bit.

“Nah.  Yeah, well, years ago.  Not.  I mean, no problem, if you want to,” John answers.

“No chance you’d, you know, sort of want to pick up on that with her again sometime?” the DI whispers.

“No.” John nods toward the kitchen to avoid a more blatant gesture toward Sherlock’s bedroom, where his friend is most likely hunched in bed.  “We’re together, and that’s, yeah.”

“All right.  Understood.”

“She’s having a hard time now, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  Just thinking ahead.”

“Good, yeah.  She’s for real, Greg.  But give her time.”

“Yeah, okay.”

***

Sherlock kneels down on the bedroom floor next to John and brushes his cheek with his fingertips.  When John smiles, in his sleep, he moves closer to kiss his forehead and temples a bit.  Sherlock is close to waking him with more kisses; he resists; John goes back to work at the surgery in the morning.  

And there is a battery of tests on the table to complete.

***

“Miss me today?” John is about to leave Baker Street; he is waiting at the living room window for a cab to arrive, below.  His lips and nose are reflected in the glass just in front of him.

“Undoubtedly.” Sherlock presses a kiss against John’s ear and puts his arms around his chest from behind briefly, before stepping away from him.

“Drop by and sort out the hypochondriacs later on?”

“No, not today.”  Sherlock has gone off to the kitchen, where he is digging something out of the refrigerator.  He slips it into a bag.  "Your cab is here,” he says, walking back to John. “Take this."

“What is -- oh, thanks, love.  Oh, you're right, he’s here.”

“I love you, John.”

“Lo --” John is nearly choked with several sudden, wild kisses from Sherlock.  “How am I supposed to leave -- hmmm.  One more.  The cab -- going.  Now.  Okay, one more.  One more.”

***

_Motives for maternal filicide are frequently of an 'altruistic' nature, while acutely psychotic perpetrators, lacking a rational motive, are in the minority. Six case studies belonging to the latter category, documenting mentally ill mothers adjudicated Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity for filicide, are analysed herein.  Strategies for intervention and prevention are presented alongside key characteristics...._

***

_This paper addresses the dearth of mean weight references in the literature for cremains and presents documentation of body weight versus ash volume; a comparison of cadavers recently deceased with dry or partially decomposed bodies and skeletal remains is discussed; the employment of multivariate statistical models..._

_Rubbish.  No._

_In this paper, the present lack of mean weight references for cremains in the literature is addressed.  A model for estimations of body weight, age and gender in cases of incineration is proposed, further to a comparative discussion of recently-deceased and dry or partially dessicated.... Mmmm.  John._

                _Thanks for lunch.  Everyone was jealous when they smelled it._

_OK.  How is your head?  SH_

_Headache, OK.  7 patients 6 to go.  Love you._

_Take care.  SH_

_Using a multivariate statistical model, it is possible to map probable features for reference during identification and retrieval of ashed human remains...._

***

“Sherlock.  You didn’t have to do this.  Honestly.”

“Good afternoon, Alex.  How was your flight.”

“It’s good to be on the ground.  Thank you for coming.”

“Airports.  So many gestures made in the name of security that mean nothing whatsoever.  Just standing here I’ve already seen three --”

“Don’t tell me any more, I beg you.”

“I spent a week undercover two years ago, x-raying baggage.  I hate flying.  The people!”

“I don’t mind it as long as I have a nice destination.  But honestly, I’m not entirely sure I want to be here.  In London.”

“Understood.  Don’t lift that.”

“Sherlock.”

“You had a collapse.”

“Yeah.”

“Don't delay your appointments."

"I don't plan to. Which appointments, though?"

"Alex. Where are your bags."

"This is all.  How is John?"

"He went back to work today."

"Thanks to you."

"In spite of me."

"Though certainly not to spite you."

"No.  Oh.  Excuse me."

_Where are you, beautiful?_

_Heathrow.  Are you home?  SH_

_Yes.  Knackered!  When will you be back?_

_Supper in bed at 7:00.  SH_  


	71. Part and parcel

“This text about ash weights of burnt bodies, Sherlock,” John says, sinking his teeth into a piece of baked salmon.

“Mmm.”  Sherlock is reading a photocopied text that bears the handwritten title _Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD) and Varroa: Challenges for the 21st Century Hive._

“This is really good.  The fish.  The text, though.  Text is good, too.  Just, you should add a table.”  John chews appreciatively.  “Is this with lemon?”

“Yes, it is.  There is a table, of the variables in the analysis.”

“No, a table that someone can have and refer to.  I mean, not like laminate and carry in your wallet, but you know, for reference.”

“I’ll generate one.  Thank you.”

“Your writing was a lot clearer this time,” John remarks.

“Endeavoured to make it so.”

“Marked a few Victorian moments.”

“Good.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock lowers his monograph and looks over at John.

“Uhm.  Lestrade mentioned some important changes in their division about -- consulting?” John says warily.  "Affecting things?"

“Yes.”

“It sort of changes your work?  I mean, officially?”

“Their choice,” Sherlock says, flatly.

“Doesn’t it bother you, love?” John's eyes flit to his mobile phone.  He winces.

“Inasmuch as they aren’t catching the right people and members of the public are put in danger needlessly, _yes_ ,” Sherlock replies, so quickly that it sounds as if he had prepared it.

“But I had the feeling you, well, when we were talking about that film.  With Lestrade --” John says.

Sherlock breaks in, “Hardly original arguments.”

“No, no, you’re probably right about the cop.  Just, do you --“

“No, I do _not_ identify personally with Deckard, though I like the portrayal in the film.”

“I meant, do you feel like the police want to close you off from --”

“Of course they do.  It's convenient.”

 _Bollocks._   “Want to talk --“

“No.”

“Why --“

“John.”  Sherlock holds up his monograph again; his beautiful eyes dart wildly over it.  

_End of conversation.  Shit._

***

Bruno the house mover has intriguing scars (even by John’s and Sherlock’s standards) and is bald to a shine; he is two inches shorter than John but has the body of a nineteenth-century circus strongman.  When he arrives at John's flat, he is dressed in threadbare, blue-toned camouflage print trousers and a faded yellow t-shirt with an ambiguous slogan (“Up For Grabs!”) printed on it in large bubble lettering.  He has an unfortunate stammer and John avoids asking him superfluous questions, wondering at the same time if the man notices.  Bruno offers casually to empty the coinage from all the meters in John’s flat; John politely refuses.  It will take less than four hours to completely box up and remove John from his flat and unpack everything again at Baker Street.  The little man puts away most of John’s clothes and books for him, under Sherlock’s direction; his soldier has been ordered to stay out of the way and remain at rest.  In the meantime, he has wandered out to the kitchen, feeling annoyed and bored, to eat a sandwich.  Some banging is going on above (cupboards and drawers, perhaps).  Partway through a bite of turkey and tomato, John suddenly thinks of the drawing that is hanging on the wall over his bed.  After a few seconds with deeply flushed ears, he decides he isn’t bothered.  It’s his place.  _Their_ place.  He thinks instead about how he will invite Sherlock to that small bed tonight for a long, warm snog.  One that is years overdue. 

***

“We’ll have a nice bath.  And.  Come upstairs and I’ll show you around.”

“What will I see?”  Sherlock chuckles.

“Well --” John says.

“I’ll look forward to it.  So to speak.”

“What?”

“No, no.”

When bath water is running and John goes upstairs to look for a thicker bathrobe, Sherlock hears a shout:  _“Wh - at!”_

Sherlock is still snickering in the bathtub when John comes back and climbs in between his legs. “How.”

“Well, you said you’d miss the wardrobe.”

“So you made off with one of the doors?”

“Your ex-landlord plans to refurnish the place with laminated rubbish from Ikea.  He was obliging.  Oh, and Lawrence got nine hundred of your deposit from him.  Texted earlier.”

“Lawrence Collingwood?”

“Our master litigator and loophole sniffer dog never disappoints.  Did you know that your building violated four fire safety laws and that you had insufficient ventilation in your kitchen?  Your landlord was quickly brought round to reason.”

“Love, you are.  Hilarious.  Thank you.  And I never had a mirror up there.”

Sherlock lowers himself in the water, shark-like, and smiles.  “I’m counting on a show of gratitude.”

_Devil._

Later, when John towels off, he pads upstairs by himself to _his_ room and crawls into bed.  His door is nearly closed and he looks over at the thick-framed melting-eye-or-hard-cock-shaped mirror that Bruno has mounted on the back of it, and shakes his head.  _A show._   He digs through his bedside table cupboard and his desk.  It seems relatively well-organised and he finds what he wants, quickly.  He settles in to wait.  He has a feeling.  As it spreads down through his legs and groin, he smiles.

Sherlock, in his dressing gown, knocks on his door after about twenty excruciating minutes.  He pokes his head in and asks about something in the refrigerator.  In manner, he looks calm and nearly bored.  But his eyes are dark.  John is in his bathrobe, reading on the bed.  He makes casual conversation about the organisation of his drawers.  Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, looking about.  A familiar scene is playing out.  Somehow it is nearly painful, this time.  “Sherlock,” John ventures, licking his lips.  “Have you ever -- nah, never mind.”

“Ever what, John?” John sees now that Sherlock’s hands are trembling. _He feels it, too._

“Just, have you ever had a girlfriend, or -- a boyfriend?”

“Why is that of interest to you?”

“No reason.  Just curious.”

“Why would you be curious?”

“Because you don’t seem to need anyone.  Makes me wonder.”

“But _what_ does it make you wonder.”

“What kind of person you’d want.  If you ever wanted someone, I mean.”

Sherlock stares.  John grins and puts out his hand.  Sherlock climbs onto the blankets next to him.  “Unbearable,” he says, quietly.

They are facing each other now in the narrow bed.  John has a hand behind Sherlock’s head; his hair is still wet from their shared bath and John’s fingers close gently around several loose, wild curls, and though he is nearly stroking him as he does so, the sound of his breathing exposes the depth of his self-control as he tries not to rush.  He lets go of the hair and puts out a finger and traces over Sherlock’s mouth, each lip like an exotic carving, seemingly mismatched by mad nature;  watching them move is a pleasure; seeing them pressed against his skin is bliss. 

Sherlock’s kisses, John thinks, often stand in for words.  He has had that impression since the first of them, in Norfolk.  He has felt the beginnings of words in them before, against his own tongue.  Waited to hear where they’ll lead.  Very often, they have led to his name, or one last, desperate and semi-conscious word in orgasm; when he makes love, Sherlock still burns quietly inside, his mouth roving over John to give pleasure (and pain -- when he cannot control himself) but slowly, words have begun to emerge naturally -- small requests, quiet endearments, and praise -- all once foreign and needless to his self-absorbed heart.  They have a place, between them, wherever _space_ is forced away, in kisses, thrusts of tongues and fingers (he won’t want more tonight).  “John,” Sherlock says, struggling to look at his soldier, so close.  He wants to be kissed.  He won’t need to ask; John tips his head, his mouth soft, and open.  He runs a thumb across Sherlock’s lips one last time and leans forward, sinking his tongue gently between them, smiling from the heat in a long, baritone sigh and the thud of an elevated pulse in the throat, where his warm, strong fingers are curling against damp skin; John is pulling Sherlock in, deeper. 

***

An insured parcel from abroad has arrived for John.  After eagerly leaping up at the sound of the doorbell, he is now trying to hide his excitement.  It is a hopeless enterprise from the start; Sherlock had already determined from the smell of his skin earlier in the day that something might be out of the ordinary.  

Though the parcel is in the flat for less than two minutes, while John pulls on a coat and searches for his keys on several table surfaces, Sherlock manages to catch a glimpse of the postage.  _Sverige!  Nnngh!_  It is clasped protectively in John’s hand ( _no chance of knocking it away ‘accidentally’, his knuckles are white_ ).  Soon John has located his keys.  He kisses Sherlock goodbye, four times, each kiss slightly longer and more difficult to break away from than the last -- ( _can’t wait to see his face later)_ and goes off humming to himself down the stairs.  Sherlock growls.  He is in pyjamas and a dressing gown, barefooted.  Shadowing John is impractical.  _Most likely headed for Regent’s Park.  Puddles, cameras.  Rain._   After a minute or two he decides he will simply make an effort to find the object ( _objects?_ ) in the flat later on, and returns to his work at the table, which is not to say that his curiosity is under control.  When it has _never_ been under control.  _John!_

***

 _I’ve run off to Regent’s Park in a steady downpour, without an umbrella, to open a bloody packet._ John is able to see the absurdity of that, but a sopping wet expanse of green with next to no bystanders seems to be the minimum precaution he can take, and he isn’t thinking clearly, anyhow.  He shreds all of the packaging as he walks and tosses the pieces of paper in three different, random bins as he goes.  _I’m an idiot._  He keeps only a small folding card with a description and personal greetings from the sender, an artist from Stockholm. 

The object he has clenched in his hand, shoved down in his coat pocket, deserves a closer look than he can afford it walking quickly and publicly, so he crosses the park and darts into a cafe he has never been to before, feeling enjoyably surreptitious about it.  He’s getting a headache.  He rubs his damp hands together and orders a piece of lemon cheesecake and a tall, steaming mug of pekoe. 

 _A beautiful thing, worthy of a phoenix_ , he thinks, pulling out Sherlock’s present and admiring it discreetly under his table, lest he be photographed with it.  _Getting bloody paranoid.  But they’d have a field day with this._  

***

John tries to go about things normally but finds it nearly impossible to keep the surprise to himself anymore, particularly when Sherlock is doing such a remarkable job of pretending he doesn’t care a  mote about it; he plays a bit of Mozart for John on his violin ("My sexy neighbour from Montmartre," John remarks.  "Except he has unfairly decided to tie that -- hmm, that's much better --") and then decides to go have something warm to drink.  Finally John gives in.  “You may be wondering what I got in the post,” he says, standing near Sherlock in the kitchen with his hands behind his back, looking as if he were about to present his friend with a bouquet of flowers.  “From Stockholm.”

“Mm?” Sherlock is wondering proudly at his own acting skills, at the moment.  He shrugs and turns away.  He fiddles with a small coffee press that he has just got and notes that it could have numerous other interesting squeezing and filtering applications, as well.  He stops counting them at thirteen because John is clearing his throat to speak again.

“I’ll give it to you straight away if you can figure out what it is.  I’ll give you five questions and a guess,” John tells him, his eyes gleaming. 

“I never guess.”

“So never mind,” John replies.

“No.  I will _deduce_ it.” 

“All right, go on, then.”

_Its value, its instinctive naturalness, the reasoned likelihood and -- their relation to other hypotheses and inquiries.  Out of my head, Peirce.  Five is not many, to narrow down smallish objects from Sweden that John would consider giving me -- as a reward for ‘guessing’.  Mmmm.  A reward, then -- that is the value.  A reward for what?  A reward, for me, for what?  What do I do that he might reward?_

_Naturalness next, then._ “Is it made of a single material?” Sherlock asks.

“By all appearances, but technically, no.  Like, wait.  Eighty percent one material, twenty percent other materials.”

“Is it symmetrical in shape?”

“Nnno.  It isn’t, no.” John holds up two fingers and Sherlock glares at them briefly.

 _He hesitated on that answer.  Interesting._  “Can one be obtained somewhere else besides Stockholm?”

“It could be, yeah.  Not exactly the same.  But this particular one was made in Stockholm.” (Three fingers.)

“Mmhmm.  Does it have utility in everyday life?”

“Utility?  No.”  (Four.)

“Is it something for the private sphere of life?”

(John forgets to hold up the fifth finger.) 

“Uhm.”  John’s ears have turned pink.  “You’ll decide, I guess.”  

 _He hesitated again._   “It is an erotic toy,” Sherlock says, resolutely.   _His ears are nearly_ _crimson_ , Sherlock notes with satisfaction.  “Coffee?”


	72. A present for a phoenix

John’s mouth has dropped open; he shakes his head dumbly at his friend. 

Sherlock huffs and raises an eyebrow.  “Amazing, I know.”

“Well.”  John crosses his arms and rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek.  Soon he has started giggling and he holds his forehead a bit and snorts in a renewed burst of laughter.

Sherlock stares at him and sets the coffee press down.  “I’ve failed.”

“Yeah, you really have.” 

Sherlock is now about as pink in the face and neck as John has ever seen him.  “Ah.”

“Yup.”

“So.  You won’t give it to me now,” Sherlock says, waving his hand petulantly, as if to knock away unseen flies, “since I have not deduced it correctly.”

“Nope.  Hmm.  Gone and disappointed you.  Twice, I think.”

“Enough, John.”

“Heh.  Good one, though.  That was, yeah.  Nasty headache going.” John has started unbuttoning his cardigan as he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs.

“Paracetamol.”

“Had some earlier on.”

“Okay.”

“Need to lie down.”

“So -- is it a folding Swedish army knife with a serrated blade?” Sherlock asks, compensatorily, as John walks away toward the bedroom.

“No, _that_ would have utility,” John answers from the bed, with a small grunt as he stretches out on his back.

“Mmm.  True.”

Thus whitewashed, and with cheeks ablaze, Sherlock doesn’t plan to bring up the subject of the parcel again for now, though his curiosity has been intensified tenfold ( _or more_ ) -- by wounded male honour.  

Once he has finished his coffee and written several emails, he slinks into his bedroom to ask something more, but finds John curled up in a deep sleep; he slides into bed next to him and wraps himself against his back, which he finds erotic, indeed.  _I need no toys.  Mmmm._

***

The fire on the hearth tonight burns over the remains of some of John’s old sports newspapers; a log has ignited from behind and the living room is now pleasantly warm and dry.  Sherlock and John are reading.  Their chairs are pushed together enough that Sherlock’s foot is resting near John’s thigh; he has a light smile on his face as his eyes sweep rapidly back and forth over the pages in his hand, which appear to have been stapled together in bundles.  John is in the middle of _Fahrenheit 451_ and has just glanced over at the fireplace at the ashes on the grate thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, because John has been reading pages at highly irregular speeds this evening.  He either has something on his mind, or he is not feeling well, again.

“Hmm?  The thing in the post?”

 _Nnngh, that, too._  “No, how are you feeling.  Your head.”

“Better.  Hard to read for very long.  It’s a good one though.”  He waves the book and sets it in his lap.  “A fireman who burns books for a living.  Books are illegal and one day he saves a Bible from the fire and it starts a sort of reversal.  Well, he starts to hate book-burning but he gets turned in.  Has to live on the run.”

“Going by the cover art, the title most likely refers to an ignition point for books and papers.  Two hundred eighteen to two hundred forty-six Celsius.  A range, because some papers autoignite at 475 Fahrenheit, for example.”

“Yeah.  Well, they have firethrowers and they do the job,” John replies, rubbing his eyes.

“Tired?”

“My eyes are.  What are you reading over there, that?”

“It’s a chapter on contaminants to the wax in honeycombs.  Pesticides and their detection, mostly.”

“Beekeeping’s more complicated than it looks.”

“If you want to maintain them well, yes, it’s very absorbing.  But relaxing.”

“Do you know how, I mean, in real life?”

“Basics.  My Mum kept two small hives, and one was mine.”

“Had your own?”

“Yes.  Eventually a digestive fungus attacked our larvae during a wet spring and we didn’t replace the populations.  Due to other concerns.” Sherlock closes his mouth in a line and drops his eyes to the monograph.

“When she was ill.”

“Yes.”

“You might do it again sometime, though.  Why not.  Harvest your own honey.” _Lick it out of your gorgeous mouth.  Lick it off you, suck it off your body all over.  Hmmm.  Love you._ John has given voice to his fantasy in a long sigh.

Sherlock glances up and smiles.  He follows John’s thoughts quite well. 

Some minutes pass and John returns to his book, having given his eyes a rest.  Before long he needs to put it down again.  Sherlock puts the monograph aside and stands to take three envelopes from the mantelpiece.  The one on top appears to be an electricity bill.  He is about to go over to his laptop with them and John has an impulse of his own.  He stands.  “I’ll take those,” he says.  “Come.”

Sherlock looks at him carefully and tosses the envelopes onto his armchair.  “Mmm?”

“About the parcel,” John says.

Sherlock tries to look uninterested but does not entirely manage it, given the expression on John’s face, which he is unable to read.  It looks set, nearly fierce, but his eyes are loving and soft.  A contrast.  _He is burning up inside.  Why._  “Yes?”

“As you know,” John says, and reaches into his jeans pocket.  “It’s for you.”  As a wave of adrenaline spreads through his entire chest, he takes Sherlock’s hand by the wrist and presses his present into his palm.  He licks his lips as he stands and watches Sherlock’s face lose colour.

Sherlock holds it up; his eyes flick over it rapidly; he turns it around in his fingers, assessing its shape critically, as if he were pulling it apart for data (he is).  _It looks ancient, though it surely isn’t._   He runs his nails over it on all the edges, which are soft, yet not matte.  _Not done entirely mechanically.  Possibly tumbled in stone.  Velvety in appearance, like Roman antiquities.  Soft metal, high purity.  Eighty to twenty, indeed._  (As much as Sherlock does not care for his shiny cuff buttons and tie pins, this object is mesmerising.)  _Heavy, just over 10 grams.  Thick, averaging three by four millimetres, smooth and organic in shape, slightly uneven.  Mannish._   _Bespoke work_.  _Unusual hallmark.  20K -- very high.  Madness.  A work of art._ “It fits,” he remarks, hoarsely, because his throat had closed at some point during his examinations and he hadn’t noticed. 

“Yeah, it will,” John replies.

“How did you know.”  Sherlock finally looks John in the face.

“Know what?”

“That it would fit.”  Sherlock swallows.

“Because --” 

 _\-- you were in the kitchen, messing about with mine when I’d set it out to weigh on your scale.  The day before we went and sold it to that Syrian herbalist in Soho.  I saw you panic when it got stuck for a few seconds.  One and a half sizes up from mine, at the advice of the artist --_  

“You -- talk in your sleep, love,” John says. 

Sherlock shakes his head, but he will not push for an answer when he cannot think clearly, himself.  

John doesn’t say anything else, for now.  There is a lot on his mind, namely one of the reasons he has given his phoenix this present in the first place:  Sherlock's choice of disguise as 'Thomas Barker'. 

Sherlock had remarked to John once that Irene Adler’s “deployment of nudity” had been _pathetic_ but she had managed to point out that disguises reflect aspects of one’s true personality.  With that idea to guide him, John hadn’t got far, at first.   _Why Doncaster?  God knows.  Why a nicked biro?  Everyone nicks them, except Sherlock, because he is always hyper-aware of what he has in his hands.  Anglican?  No idea.  Why an accountant?  Average profession, the numbers, perhaps?  Horrid shoes?  Sherlock thinks nearly all shoes are horrid and would just as soon run about without them._   _Glasses?  Easy to remove._   _Thomas, a skeptic, and the surname because he likes dogs?  Nah, reading way too much into that._ ‘Barker’ it seems, had been stitched together using bits of real people, to round out an “affable”, believable, average bloke. 

But one thing had struck John.  Sherlock had never referred to himself as _homosexual_ before, even indirectly, acting out a character, as he once had, deceiving Alex.  _And why would he have worn a wedding band (recently-married) while in that persona?  At a proctologist’s?_ John sees patients every week who have something to hide, whether symptoms or personal issues.   _That might fit, in fact.  Doctor, if you can see that someone is regularly penetrating me, at least know that I am really -- someone’s.  It matters.  And when did he relax most?  When he was completely pissed -- and when he heard me say, ‘Only you’.  And believed it.  A monogamist, to the core._  

Now, Sherlock is dead pale and serious; his eyes are all over John’s face.  John has seen him look that way before.  In those moments, he always expects his friend to turn and walk away.  At the same time, he appears to be unable to move from where he is standing, close and very still.

“Why do you want to give me this?” Sherlock asks.

“Because I love you.”

“I understand that there’s only one of them.”

“True.  One in the world,” John says, as if he were about to add _like you._

But Sherlock breaks in.  “Explain the significance of a single ring,” he says, still holding it in his fingers as he might a house key.

“I want you to have it.  From me.  Whether you put it on, or when, is your decision.  Keep it with you, like when you have to go away somewhere without me.”

“John?”

“Yes, beautiful.”

“I will want to choose something for you.” 

“Then you will,” John says, raising his chin.

“I’ll need time for it.”

“All right.”

“Marriage is pointless.  Promises are not, however,” Sherlock says.

“I agree.”

“Okay.”  Sherlock seems only slightly calmer after hearing that.  He has gone back to examining his present carefully.  “Well-chosen,” he says, absorbedly.  “Initially I suspected you’d nicked this from the British Museum and had got it hallmarked through your criminal contacts in Stockholm as bespoke gold-smithing.” He is trying, with difficulty, to smile at his own irony. 

“Approve of my methods, then?” John asks.

“Yes, very much so.”

“Hmmm.” John smiles.

“Eighty percent.  I see you meant that it is an alloy.  Not a single material, technically.  Referring to its silver, copper, and zinc content,” Sherlock remarks.  He seems to be recovering from his initial, more troubled state, though his fingers are trembling.

“Yeah.”

“And it is not symmetrical.  Not entirely round inside or out, true.” 

“Well, no.  That made it a lot harder to guess.”

“I didn’t _guess_.  But I did not imagine, either.” 

“You tend to underestimate yourself.” 

“No.  I don’t.”

“You do.  Too frequently.”

“No, I don’t.  Why on earth would I assume you’d want to give me something as exquisite and meaningful as this?” Sherlock says, stirred again.

“Inspired, let’s say,” John answers quietly.  And he leaves things at that, because both of them need to calm themselves.

They sit back down in front of the fire and watch the flames.  John rests his heel near his friend’s leg.  Sherlock has the ring closed in his hand, his knuckles pressed to his lips.  His other hand is wrapped over John’s warm toes; he looks tired, and soon he shuts his eyes.

 _He’s accepted it.  I just may have been right._ John is amazed.    

Perhaps because he tends to underestimate himself, as well.


	73. The engraver

_Justification, step one.  Photo-chemical aging is closely tied to chemical  and optical properties of the polymer and is thermo-activated.  In order to achieve photo-chemical aging, the following stages may be applied in laboratory conditions:  the creation of a radical by a UV photon, the creation of carbonyl group oxidation and the photolysing of --  Lestrade._

Sherlock picks up his phone. "Yes?"

"Can you come have a look?  Westminster. Can't make out a thing." Lestrade sighs heavily into his receiver; Sherlock makes a face.

"Really."

"Doesn't matter, just get over here and have a look."

"Text me the address.  I'll need to dress."

***

                _Fatal beating, body moved, reconstructing scene.  SH_

_Strep throat and bronchitis.  Pub with Will later._

_Why from Stockholm?  SH_

_Because the artist whose work I liked most was Swedish._

_Not the first beautiful thing to come to London via Stockholm!_

_I love you with all my heart.  SH_

***

_Fatal beating three blocks from your flat.  Coffee?  SH_

_Hi Sherlock :)  Sounds good.  Alex_

_^The coffee!!!!!!!   Alex_

*** 

“Getting accident-prone in your old age,” Alex remarks, sipping at the over-filled cup of herbal tea he has just been handed by a barista.  He looks about the cafe interior for a place to sit.

“And the latest signs are?” Sherlock takes his coffee and follows Alex to a table away from the front windows.   _Iris, amber, leather_ \--

“Accidentally wearing a band out of doors.  Again,” Alex says, sitting down and nodding toward Sherlock’s hand.

“This one is from John, the other was not.”

“Well.  I’m glad you’ve cleared that up, then.  So you _are_ engaged.”

“Not to be married.”

Alex tilts his head and studies the ascent of the ring as Sherlock raises his cup to his lips.  “Oh, Lord, that is lovely.  Did he put it on your finger?”

“No.”

“Then you can take it off.  May I have a look at it?”

“I don’t follow,” Sherlock says, working the band over his knuckle and setting it in front of Alex.

“If he put it there, you really shouldn’t remove it unless he’s around, and willing to put it back on for you.  It’s tradition.” 

“As if that validated the practice.” Sherlock makes a critical sound and watches his friend take in the unusual form of his ring; he has slipped on a pair of magnifying glasses, vintage in appearance, though not those with delicate Bakelite frames.   _Planning ahead._  Sherlock smiles to himself. 

“Its finish and shape are absolutely timeless.  Whose work is it?”

“Vilda Runblom, a goldsmith and metal arts historian from Stockholm.  A friend of Jens’, as it happens.  They worked in conservation together briefly in the late nineties.”

Alex’s eyes soften.  “Small world we live in.  Of Swedish make, then.”

“Yes.”

Alex raises an eyebrow more than appreciatively as he looks at the hallmarking.  “He went to some trouble for it.  Nothing you’d see on the high street, surely.”

“John appreciates art.”

“Yeah.  And he adores you.  I hope you do realise how fortunate you are.”

 _Linda said nearly the same thing.  Interesting._   “To refer to one’s own fortune --“

“Stop relativising!  It’s unbecoming,” Alex interrupts firmly, removing his glasses and handing the ring carefully back to Sherlock.

“Advice from your great aunt Claudia?” Sherlock smirks.

“No, that one is from me.  And I insist that you take me seriously.”

“I do take you seriously, or I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Alex smiles with feigned demureness into his cup.  “Finally someone who sees I’m not just another pretty face.”

“Ah, then you _haven’t_ gone out with Jens yet.  Why not?”

“He’s been working from home, with a nasty flu and bronchitis all this time.  We text.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at Alex.

“What is so obvious, besides everything?”

“You have new glasses for close work.  Andy Wolf, if I’m not mistaken, handmade in Austria.  You wouldn’t spend nearly three hundred Euro on glasses unless you fancied you’ll look through them for a _very_ long time, at something you want _very_ much to see _._   You plan to work well and impress him.  Though you already have, _min stjärna,_ as he referred to you recently _.”_

“Like, _Stern_ \--?” Alex stares at Sherlock.  “Gracious Mother.”

“Well.  And you had that jacket made before you left Austria.”

“I did.  So what have you already concluded about my tailor?”

“He is, in fact an elderly seamstress, on occasion.  Outsourcing the stitch work on the lapels and cuffs.  Therefore.  You _do_ plan to visit the cardiologists.  And here I was, looking forward to doing some pencil studies of a healthy liver.”

“Haa!  Ha!  Sherlock, I have missed you, you know.  I have.”

"That watch.  Couldn't install a silencer, could they. You don't want to look for something more reliable?"

"If I move, I'm not  _late_."

"Alex."

"One has to laugh at something."  Alex sips.  "But thanks for taking it in for me."

"He owed me a favour."

"Who."

"The watchmaker."

"I see."

"It was overwound."

After a longish silence, Sherlock says, the light tone gone from his voice, “Alex, on a different subject.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know Sir Károly Simko-Vágner?”

Alex catches his breath.  “Yes, I do, in fact.”

“Can I count on you for an introduction?”

“Of course,” Alex replies.  “If you feel you need one, then --“

“Where there is still any protocol to be had in the world,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Yeah, I understand.  When?”

“Once we've finished here.”

“Well.  We would need to call ahead, Sherlock.  He’s in his nineties, by now, I’m not sure he can --”

“Call ahead.  Can you walk there?”

“Yeah.  German only, if he receives us at all.”

“Understood.”

“For --”

“Yes.”

Alex makes several calls and dictates a number to Sherlock to remember.

He will recite it back to him later, on the pavement outside.

“ _Griass eich._   _Hier Alexander George Adalbert, der Sohn von Herr Reinhard Wilhelm Nussbaum.  Ja, genau, genau.  Danke sehr -- das ist sehr lieb...”*_ Alex wanders along the length of the sidewalk, straightening in response to the sound of his interlocutor’s voice.   _The latest clash between Alex and the current aeon, or more specifically the morons who are pushing past him, squealing like swine and snapping gum as they breathe loudly with their mouths hanging open -- flaunting their stinking intraoral tissues, synthetic oils, their clothes tight, or gaping open in turn, their nails matching the stripes in their trainers, their expansive gestures intruding on the sensibilities of the entire neighbourhood, for God’s sake.  Idiots!_ Sherlock catches himself holding his breath.  While so restless.  He shakes it off.  _Ridiculous.  Enough._   _“Haben Sie vielleicht etwas Zeit für uns, um sich mit uns zu unterhalten?”_ the artist is asking, kindly.  He looks over at Sherlock victoriously and nods.  _“Gleichfalls.  Wir werden bald schon.”_

***

Sherlock is standing very still, in front of the nonagenarian Sir Károly Simko-Vágner, whose age-splotched, milky face and folded, claw-like hands are equally motionless.  His eyes, though hooded with age, are still lively.  He is a master engraver, originally from a village near Budapest, whose monographs on flourish chasing Sherlock had once consulted while trying to track and analyse the work of a forger with superior-quality, hand-etched plates.  As it happens, Sir Károly knows very well who Sherlock Holmes is, and enjoys assessing the detective in person, from his seat.  He sees a man a half-century younger, with a quick eye and a love of detail, one who still has manners about him, despite his impetuous character; he is in love, barely able to contain himself, as so many before him, and he cares that his gift be made with heart.  Not quickly, by a machine.  A wild spirit, slowed and made reflective by love, indeed.  The engraver smiles.  Sherlock is asking, _“Wann kann ich eine Gravur machen lassen?  Weil ich würde sogar lange darauf warten, wenn Sie es mir nur machen.”*_

Sir Károly replies, _“Nein, Sie mussen nicht zu lange darauf warten.”_

 _"Das ist eine Ehre.”_   Sherlock removes a small wooden puzzle box from his pocket and hands it over to the engraver, whose gnarled but agile fingers curl over it and flick it open instantly, even before Sherlock remembers that he might have presented it opened; he also realises that he has begun counting some of the medals and plaques on the wall behind the old man’s head.  He stops.

 _"So,”_ the elder man mumbles, removing the gold corpus that will someday be John’s and holding it up. _“Ich weiss, Zeit ist für euch das wichtigste, weil ihr noch sehr jung seid.  Und was machen wir?”_

 _"Ein Motiv mit Eichen, so wie Sie es sich vorstellen,”_  Sherlock tells him.  _“In -- Übereinstimmung mit Ihren eigenen Vorstellungen von dem, was es sein sollte, für einen Soldat -- und Arzt.”_

_“Gut.  Ich erzähle euch etwas über eine Gravur.  Mit Eichen.  Komm mit, komm mit.”_

Alex takes his leave of Sir Károly, smiles at Sherlock, and slips out of the flat to go home.

_______________________

_* German texts:_

_\- Greetings to you [dialect].  This is Alexander George Adalbert, the son of Mr. Reinhard Wilhelm Nussbaum.  Yes, exactly, exactly.  Thank you very much -- that is very kind....  Would you perhaps have any time to talk to us for a moment?  Likewise.  We will be there soon._

_\- When can I have engraving done?  I would wait as long as necessary to have it done by you._

_\- No, you needn’t wait long for it._

_\- That is an honour._

_\- I see.  I know that to you, time is the most important [thing], because you are still very young.  And what are we doing?_

_\- An oak motif, as you would see it.  In -- accordance with your own concept of how it should look, for a soldier -- and doctor._

_\- Fine.  I will tell you a bit about an engraving.  With oak leaves.  Come along, come along._

***

Sherlock's last stop of the day, since John will be out all evening, is to visit Oleg of Irkutsk, a young immigrant and synesthete who has powerful, colourful visual responses to scents.  He works for a perfumery in Jermyn Street and creates custom blends; the first time he’d met Sherlock he’d boldly leaned in to sniff his throat and had declared, “You are lavender man.   _Never_ citrus!  No, you will not wear.  Not for you, because it is against your colour and your nature.”  He had made such a case over it that Sherlock had later found himself using the scent in a shampoo, blended with cedar (and John likes it).  Sherlock finds Oleg amusing, but also useful.  He is able to identify hundreds of perfumes and their notes, and if given an object to sniff, provides interesting feedback on the wearer.  He has been able to provide leads on two separate occasions.  Once, to test him, Sherlock had given Oleg John’s scarf (“He is blue.  Geranium, grass, amber, musk, white tea and sandalwood for this man.”)  Today, Sherlock is coming by to visit him for the pleasure of talking about scent and sniffing oils.  And perhaps to obtain one phone number.  “Good afternoon, Lavender Man,” he is greeted.   

The two men talk about wood notes.  “Come in here, I am working with oakmoss.  But synthetic.  You will tell me what is inside," Oleg says.

"Oakmoss, pepper, orange, jasmine.  Musk.  The pepper wrecks it.  The orange and jasmine are cliché."

"The pepper will disappear first.  And you are wrong.  Lily of the valley, not jasmine."

"Lily.  Always something."

"But you were very close."

"Mmm."

"You can wear oakmoss.  With lavender.  Or rock violet.  Ah, I see congratulations for your marriage." 

Sherlock bites his tongue but smiles, briefly.  “Oleg.  A lapidarist.”  

“My cousin.”

“His name?”

“Anatol.  Here, I will write the telephone.  Or, no.  You remember.  You’re no lazy British.”

***

_Polymers produced by way of polycondensation are susceptible to hydrolysis as bound cleavage between monomer units brings about decreased molar mass; synthetics such as polyesters and polyamides, as well as natural polymers (among them paper and leather) --_

The door has closed downstairs; John is coming up quietly.  He finds Sherlock at the living room table, typing.

"Hey, gorgeous.  Still up?"

"Two pints.  Decent conversation, then."

"Yeah, just two.  Thinking of you all day, you know." John leans down to kiss Sherlock's temple.

"Mmm."

"When you have a chance, look through these.  Four potential locations for the clinic, just, have a look and tell me what you think.  Whenever." John sets a file on the table; Sherlock picks it up and shuffles through five real estate offers.

"Only this one."

"Priciest, though, and a little small."

"Depends on the furnishings.  Tube and bus stops within a one-block radius.  Older, established and wealthy residents.  Near a landmark, easily located, ground floor, police station five, no.  Six doors down, going by the numbering."

"Yeah.  So.  This one?" 

"Mmhmm."

"And what've you been doing, my love?"

"Thinking of you."


	74. Consuming

_Thirty-six.  Tennis or squash?  Determined.  Would have hurt.  Seven-inch vertical slice up the right wrist, two and three-quarters on the left.  Left handed, naturally did the right arm first, then pain interfered.  Debts.  Illness, perhaps.  Betrayal. A father._ (Sherlock flips a page in a new sketchbook.  The third page out of 150 is about to be covered in two studies of a well-defined deltoid and clavicle.  The book is a present from John.)   _High cotton content.  Nice paper.  Consistently inconsistent shading -- will do them over.  You’ve so much talent, John claims, so much in earnest, don’t stop, my love, whatever you choose to put on paper, it’s all right -- mmm.  How can I explain it, soldier.  That the work is changing.  That its relevance is constantly shifting.  Not unlike my drawing abilities, which are slipping, even...now.  Might have brought along a rubber.  Ah.  Supper.  Seven forty-eight?_

                _Where are you, beautiful?  OK?_

 _Bart’s.  Will be in 30.  SH_  

***

“Nice on you, John.”

“You look fantastic on me, yeah.”

“The jumper.  You might remove it.”

“A warm one.  Good choice.” John sits up enough to pull off the horn-buttoned gray number that Sherlock had blearily selected for him at the end of their recent wool-shopping expedition.

“Not made with powers of choice _intact_ , as I recall,” Sherlock mumbles, sucking in his breath as he tosses the jumper aside on his bed.  He stretches out next to John and wraps a leg over his warm calves.

“Tell me something,” John says.

“What should I tell you.”

“Something good and hot for a cold night.”

“A story?” Sherlock asks.

“Just for me, something.”

“Okay.”

“Take these off for you?”  John’s thumb traces down the zip on Sherlock’s trousers.

“I can’t think of one.”

“You can, love.”

“Perhaps that -- film.  Those books,” Sherlock says, indistinctly.

“Which ones.”  

“I am interrogating a soldier.”

“Hmmm.  Yeah.”  Sherlock’s trousers are open and John’s fingers are slipping in for more.

“Accused of conspiracy, refuses to talk, time is running out and I have to pull the facts out of him, however I can.  And I spend hours interrogating him, every way I know how.  Threatening him?” Sherlock suggests. 

“Hmmm.” John shifts his body so he can see Sherlock better.  “How?”

Sherlock smiles shortly, distracted.  “He is uncouth, and unfortunately for me, he is also fit, with thick, sandy hair and dark blue eyes, like indigo ink in a glass.  He’s quick and impulsive, and resilient.  I am tired of it.  ‘Your situation is precarious, Captain, they’ve given me a free hand’, I tell him, finally.  ‘Good,’ he says.  ‘So go toss off'.” 

John giggles explosively as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and jeans.

“Yes, undress yourself, John.  And at the mention of hands,” Sherlock continues, studying the descent of John’s fingers back to his flies, “he has quite subconsciously gripped his knees with his own, and when I look down at them, I also see far more, there against his thigh, and I’m lost.  Like I am now, in fact.” 

“Not lost at all,” John says, pulling off his Oxford shirt and working off his jeans.  Sherlock interrupts his story to lean in and lick a line of wet kisses along John’s shoulder, as John pulls off the rest of his clothes for him. “See, not at all.  Hmmm, look at you. You're killing me.”

“For hours, it was all I could do not to pick up this soldier by the throat and drop him on his back, disrespectful as he was.  But now I’m beginning to think I should change my tactics, so that my hand would be forced.  I _want_ to throw him down, pull off his trousers, and.  Pound him into the floor.”  Sherlock winces.  "He wants it, as well."

“Yeah,” John smiles.

“They never shut off the cameras, in fact.  In films, they do, but they really don't.  So we will be filmed that way, under the table, the soldier on his stomach, shouting and fighting under me, in a stranglehold, with me wrestling a confession from him at first, then -- essentially having my way until he confesses that he likes it.   But your stories are much better."

“No, no, no, don’t stop.  Carry on."

"Another time.  I’ll think of one that makes more sense, this isn’t very realistic.  Yours -- are, on occasion, very real.”

"Yup.  But go on, love."

“Mmm.  We would be detained and we’d do it again, because the soldier.  Well.  In fact, we would never be detained together, so -- oh.”

“Come here.”  John nips Sherlock’s ear in his teeth.  “A bad soldier, you said?”

“Mmhmm.”

“During detention.  How would you.”

“How would I?  Well.”

John takes Sherlock’s cheek in his hand and teases his lips gently without entirely kissing him.  “Take it easy.”

“No, no.”

“Pet you a little, okay?  Start over later.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”  John sighs and takes Sherlock in his arms, petting his hair back slowly, raking through it with his fingers; as he does so, he notices for the first time that Sherlock has the beginnings of a streak of gray over his right temple. 

“Did you see the _Daily Mail_ today?” Sherlock asks, after a long silence.

“Nope.”

“You’ll be able to laugh at it, perhaps.  Alex was mortified.”

“What?  Why?”

“There’s a speculative text about my posh new mystery friend, who gave me a gold ring at a cafe."

"Oh, Jesus.  Bloody idiots."

"With a photograph of him holding it out to me.” 

“Didn’t hear about it, no,” John replies. “Yeah, I guess he would be upset.”

Sherlock waits for several seconds, his eyes darting over John, before he asks,  “Any thoughts?”

 _Wearing my ring about London, beautiful phoenix._ “Loads.  No.”

“John.”

“Yes, love.”

 _Not angry, not jealous._  Sherlock's eyes fall to his hand.  “It's very nice.”

“Yeah.  Amazing, being with you.” 

“Mmm.”  Sherlock is moving his legs and sitting up so that John finds himself surrounded.  Captured by limbs. 

"More every day.  Know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I do."

John’s hand is crushing Sherlock’s tightly as he speaks.  He seems to be considering his next move.  “I could --"  His tongue pokes out and he slicks his lip with it. "Ride you.  If you’d.”

“Hhnnnn,” Sherlock hardly manages to reply.  “Yes.”

John grins as they go to kiss and feel the sudden current in it; soon, they are ravenous as they wind their arms around each other and grasp at each others’ necks and shoulders, tearing at each other _(Sherlock’s nails are_ \-- _Christ, yeah.  Well-trimmed_ ) with fingertips, teeth and lips, not lightly or carefully.  There is too much emotion now for reflective, quiet kissing, even if that path of patience and admiration lies just beneath the deep, forceful contact they want, now.  That absorption in slower, more gentle touches will come.  Later.  Now, intense promises seem to vibrate through every breath shared (an irrational and impossible idea -- a promise in a kiss or a breath -- and yet they are there).  They seem to pick up in speed and warmth and then bloom, explosively, one after another.  John climbs into Sherlock’s lap, leaning in for a few wet frots.  Sherlock shuts his eyes and focuses on the sounds of John groaning and mumbling; he rocks up to catch John’s receptive, rhythmic thrusts.  His tongue slides wildly over John’s; every move ends in a gasp and pant -- _pain.  No, it is me.  I am gone -- mad.  Beautiful soldier -- my soldier --_  “J -- J --“

“God, you’re so -- _good.  Fuck -- ah._   Ahhh!  Ah -- ah!  _Don’t stop!  Don't stop!  Ah!  Chriiiist!”_   John arches his back and bears down over Sherlock, taking every trembling burst of him, holding their heads together, encircled in one of his arms, as he fists his own cock, coming with his man softening and done inside of him.  John’s last, heavy, wordless sigh ends in a radiant, loving smile.  “You’re so wonderful, you angel, beautiful phoenix.  Come here.  I love you so much.  So much.”  John’s head is hurting and his eyes are shining from it.  Sherlock is stroking John’s face, gently, kissing his forehead and cheek, silenced by his own feelings, at being ridden ( _indescribable; we could kiss_ ). And at being loved, more every day.

 _He looks amazing,_ thinks John, _wearing only a ring_.  He smiles to himself as Sherlock tightens his arm around him and closes his eyes again.

***

“How did you choose this.”  Sherlock is looking at his hand, which he has put out to pet John's shoulder.

“Thinking about seafarers, like Greeks, Romans, Vikings, something romantic, and -- older, more organic forms, you know.”

“ _Seafarers_.”  Sherlock looks sharply at John, who smiles and nods.

“Is it true, my love, that you wanted to be a pirate?”

“Did my brother tell you that?” Sherlock asks, to which John shrugs in the affirmative.  "What for?"

“Don't know,” John answers, rubbing his chin.  “I assume when you were a child, right?  I think he meant you could’ve chosen another path in life.  A few years ago, mentioned it, just.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and stares at the ceiling, before turning back to John.  “Mmmm.”

“What.  Yeah, and I started looking for something like that.” John takes Sherlock’s long hand and kisses three of his knuckles.  “And then I found a goldsmith who was an expert in Old Norse antiquities. I think it suits you.” 

Sherlock is studying him carefully, so John smiles and sighs, to ease himself away from the subject, not entirely knowing why he feels so strongly that he should.  


	75. That wool song

At seven-thirty in the morning, when John is drinking a cup of tea alone in the kitchen, a football magazine on the table in front of him, he picks up a call from Linda. He hears a small voice at the other end of the line. “Hi, Uncle John, this is Mike speaking. I’m using Mummy’s phone.”

“Okay, Mike, how are you?” John asks, setting down his tea.

“I’m fine. Is Sherlock Holmes there?”

“Yes, he is. I’ll go and give him the phone.” John walks to the bedroom and shakes Sherlock’s shoulder; his eyes open and he inhales sharply; he had been dreaming. “Okay. He’s on his way, to the phone. So, well. How is your Mum doing? Is someone there?”

“She’s sleeping. Granddad’s coming to pick me up for school.”

“Okay. When she wakes up, tell her I said hi.” John taps Sherlock’s arm again and nods. “So, here he is, I’m giving him the phone.” John covers the receiver. “Linda’s son. Wants to talk to you.”

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. “This is Sherlock Holmes,” he says.

“This is Mike Barrows speaking. Do you remember me?” squeaks Mike, though he is trying to sound as serious as he possibly can.

“Yes, I remember you.”

“Me and my friend need your help, sir.”

“And how can I help _your friend and you_?”

“At my school there is an icky man.”

Sherlock glances at John, who is standing in the bedroom doorway with his arms folded over his chest. “I see. What kind?”

“In the girl’s loo.”

“Did you see him, too?”

“Laura did, that’s my friend, and she said there was a man looking on when they were in the loo and she only goes in the boys’ now and I guard,” Mike answers.

“Did she know that man?” Sherlock asks.

“No.”

“When did that happen?”

“Yesterday and the day before. Can you find him and tell him to shove off?”

“Yes, I can try. Does your teacher know about him?”

“I dunno.”

“Does your Mum?”

“No. So will you come?”

“Yes. I want to talk to your Mum. Ask her to the phone.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Wake her up for me, please.”

“Okay. _Muuuuuummmmy!_ So, she’s coming. Here she is. Here, Mummy, it’s Sherlock Holmes. Bye! Thank you!”

Linda clears her throat and yawns, whispering something to Mike before picking up. “Hi. Sherlock?” she says. “Hey. Sorry about this. Everything okay?”

“Text me the address of your son’s school. I’ll be there in an hour and a half,” Sherlock replies.

“What? Why?”

“Too early to say.” Sherlock has picked up his own phone and is already tapping at it quickly with his thumb.

“Is everything -- okay? What’s going on?”

“I plan to determine that.”

“Uh. Call when you’re there and we’ll meet up, okay? You’re scaring me.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking. Un - re - lated,” he says absently, squinting at his screen.

“’Kay,” she says. “So call, I’ll be waiting.”

John is still watching Sherlock, biting his lip. “What’s on,” he asks, once Sherlock has rung off. “What’s with his school, Sherlock. Is it -- _them_ again?”

“Not the U. brothers, if that’s what you mean, no. Michael is taking things into his own hands. Could be a misunderstanding, but --” Sherlock rolls out of bed, tapping and scrolling. He sniffs.

“What _sort_ of misunderstanding? Hey, now.”

“Coming? There’s a train every twelve minutes out of Waterloo at this hour.”

“Yeah. By the way, I want my Sig. Give it back.” John starts to dress.

Sherlock frowns down at the screen again and shakes his head. “Another time.” Linda’s text with a school address arrives. “Mmm.” After several more minutes of skimming, Sherlock drops the phone on the bed and rushes into the bathroom. He emerges superficially washed, with his hair combed back. He starts digging through one of his drawers; he pulls out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and shoves them onto his forehead. “Lend me something,” he says to John. “It can be -- that.” He gestures toward one of John’s button-front jumpers, which is folded on a chair in the corner of the room.

“Sure,” John says, as Sherlock slips into pants, dark jeans, and a powder blue shirt; he chooses a red, crested polyester tie, tying it in what John had called a “Shelby-the-prat” in school; he is now humming a song from _Dirty Dancing_ as he shifts the knot at his long throat.

John snickers as he buttons up a shirt. “What _are_ you singing.”

“No idea. It was playing when we were shopping recently and I can’t -- seem to delete it -- when I see woolens -- _nngh_.” Sherlock grunts as he clips a pin closed across the tie and drops the glasses down onto his nose. “Yeah. Horrid on the whole, innit. Good, though, for _our_ purposes?” he says to his mirror, testing out a mild voice, completely unlike his own. He hitches up his jeans and shakes his wrist like his watch irritates his skin; he coughs, sniffing as though he had chronic allergies and a post-nasal drip. John shakes his head. _Thomas Barker would basically look like that_. “Ready?” Sherlock asks in his usual voice, observing John’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. “I have a biology lesson at ten. Unless it happens that I got the date and place all wrong, in which case I will need to wander _aimlessly_ about in my confusion. Mmm.” The corners of his lips twitch as he turns to get John’s cardigan. John sighs and rubs his stomach. “Finish breakfast later,” Sherlock says, pre-emptively. “Ah. One of your coats. The older brown one.”

“So, what’s on in Egham?”

“Come, John.”

***

By eleven in the morning, a registered sex offender with a history of child molestation, hired at the primary school under a false name to do general maintenance, is in custody for questioning by the local police; footage of the man entering the girl’s toilets for “plumbing work” during breaks has been procured, and a sergeant is taking notes of Sherlock’s statement on links to the same suspect. It is all John can do to keep his hands to himself. _Proud doesn’t cover it._ On the way to Linda’s place, where they have been invited for brunch, Sherlock explains: “Sunningdale, three weeks ago, a man dressed as a plumber forced himself on a thirteen-year-old girl. She broke away and he ran off, no clear image of the attacker. Bracknell, eleven days ago -- a man dressed in the clothing of a grounds-keeper was chased away from a toilet in a public park after looking in on a woman. Descriptions of height and build agree. Egham -- on the same line, as you well know. Michael mentioned the girls’ toilet and a man looking in. It fit. And. Telling a teacher wouldn’t necessarily have helped prevent another incident, if the perpetrator was on-site doing legitimate work. He’d bide his time and try again. It would be easy to claim it was a mix-up. Like I did, when I came to see you in hospital. A security guard asked why I’d been in a patient’s room. ‘Stain there in the doorway, doin’ me’job, sir, sorry’. And today, as a biology sub, wandering through the halls, poking about where I pleased. Ridiculous! A molester’s playground.”

“Hmmm. Cut off his prick, piece of shit!” John is crossly mumbling and tapping at the pockets of his coat. “Thanks for listening. Taking him seriously. Can’t believe the guy was hanging around in a _primary school toilet._ Sodding pervert! If he’d gone and touched one. Jesus!”

“Well. There shouldn’t be a public award for Michael. It could make him a target. I’ll talk to Linda.”

Mike is allowed to come home early from school and Sherlock takes him aside for a long chat concerning the typology of “bad strangers” over heavily sweetened tea ( _“We have something in common, you know? Uncle John said you always want piles of sugar in your tea, just like me! Hee hee!”_ ), which gradually turns into a discussion about how to become an invisible flying spy for the Met in London -- Mike’s current dream job. John sits with Linda in her kitchen. “He’s so brave, you know, just like our Jim,” she says, her eyes red. She pulls at her fringe nervously. “I wish he’d told his teacher, first. He doesn’t really know who to trust now, that’s what I think. Maybe it’s my fault? I didn’t know anything.”

“Nah, he just wanted to get it taken care of fast and help his friend. And it ended with an arrest. You heard, a recidivist pervert. Should be _shot through.”_

“Take it easy, sweetheart, you’re giving yourself a headache,” Linda tells him. “Have another sandwich.”

Lestrade rings Sherlock later to congratulate (and thank) him; Linda had called and told him all about the incident; from the sound of it, they’d had an _encouraging_ chat, as Sherlock phrases it to John. Lestrade is wound up and spontaneously invites them out for a late drink. John is surprised when Sherlock agrees to go along without dissent, even suggesting a club to meet in. Later, he listens carefully to all of Lestrade’s ramblings about Linda and her courageous boy without rolling his eyes even once. His gaze is fixed on the dance floor, however. All at once, he announces his intentions ( _“Yer gonna -- what?”_ Lestrade exclaims) and stands up from the table.

“You’re killing us.” John laughs and looks up at Sherlock. “We can’t even dance.”

“All too easy,” Sherlock retorts, removing his jacket.

“No, it sure well isn’t,” Lestrade mumbles.

“No, I meant killing you both. I’ve often said so. You might join me,” Sherlock says, sipping ostentatiously at John’s wine glass and shrugging. To John, he says, “Oh. And I think I have finally placed that _wool_ song from earlier.”

 _Wool-song-from-earlier?_ “Yeah, sure.” John shakes his head and shifts in his seat.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says to the DI, as they look at the people dancing across the room. “Choose someone for me.”

John has just clapped his hand over his forehead, and Greg looks over at him, startled.

“Well, if you -- okay, the one in the green dress, there, the blonde with the red shoes, or maybe the ginger with the sort of checked trousers,” Lestrade says, chuckling.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and leaves, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Heh. He’s a helluva dancer,” Lestrade remarks after several minutes. “He’s already chatted up the blonde. Look at them. How does he just go up to them like that. Arrogant and cocky, he is, will you look at that?”

John sighs. _Devil.  Phoenix.  Gorgeous creature, you’re killing me, on purpose, beautiful thing._  He is snapped out of his thoughts by a long grumble from Greg.

“Oh, _geez_.” Lestrade pulls out his phone. “Yeah,” he mutters into the receiver. “Now? Oh, come on. Almost midnight, for _crying_ out loud. Still? Yeah, yeah. Okay. Be there, yeah.”

“What’s on, Greg?” John asks.

“Bollocks. Nah, no, not work.  My sister.  My Mum’s not eating again, dehydrated.  Look, I’m going to need to clear out.  You good?” Greg stands to go and pulls out his wallet.

“Yeah, yeah.  No, I’ve got these, no.  Go on.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Take it easy.  Hey, call Linda.  Geriatric nurse.  She deals with that all the time.”

“This hour, though?  Nah.”

“Works nights, go on.”

“Ah. Okay.  Take care, then.  Thanks.”

As Lestrade leaves the club, Sherlock excuses himself from his dance partner and approaches John at the table. “His mother’s worse, going by his stoop,” he remarks.

“Needed to go home, yeah,” John explains gesturing at the door. “Regret I can’t dance, watching you.”

“Cumulative evidence to the contrary includes your sense of rhythm.  And excellent --“

“Don’t have it in me.”

Sherlock glances down at his watch. “I liked that recent story of yours.”

“Which one?” John asks.

 _“La danse est un duo, fait d'instinct et d'imagination_ \-- _Regardez moi._ “   Sherlock takes one more long sip of wine from John’s glass and walks away.

John is still gaping at him with concentration. _A dance, a duo, between, the instinct and the imagination. Regard me.  Regard?  No.  Watch me!_ John has a flash of intuition -- in the form of adrenaline to his stomach -- as to what is about to happen. _My neighbour in Montmartre.  Oh God, yes, do it._

Sherlock has rejoined the red-shoed blonde; she smiles and he puts an arm on her shoulder; he seems to be pointing out a man to her.  She puts her hand to her lips; in a moment, the man has introduced himself. Sherlock looks on for a moment before turning away.  And suddenly, he has started dancing again.  Alone.  In the middle of a dozen or so couples, John realises that his phoenix is looking at _him_ , across the room, dancing for _him_. _Not just a story._ John grips his chair until his knuckles are white, admiring him, pleased all over that _this_ is his dearest friend. His lover. _And the bloody sexiest creature in London_.  Sherlock finally turns away after two songs _(two? who is able to count now?)_ when an elderly lady approaches him and shouts something into his ear; he grimaces a bit and politely takes a turn with her, in a style resembling a fast ballroom number, much to her delight; John notices that several other ladies at a nearby table are noisily egging her on; he decides she must have won a bet of some kind. _God, look at him.  I love him._

Once John has finished his wine, Sherlock returns to the table and stands in front of him, flushed, with his hands behind his back.  He watches expectantly as John pays a waitress who has just stopped to gather glasses from the tabletop.  He opens his mouth once she is gone and says quietly, “Maybe you didn’t care for it?”

“You’re so talented, love.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, uhm.   _Baise-moi_. _”_

“Essential French.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“Some stuff from the army.” John's ears are suddenly pink; he is gazing at Sherlock’s lips. “Order a cab?”

“I already have.” Sherlock leans down and plucks his jacket from the chair next to John; he pushes his hair off his face and they make their way toward the door.  Sherlock checks his watch again as he goes.  John follows him out into the slick, misty night, where Sherlock is scanning all the numbers of the cabs; they hop into the one that he finally nods toward.  Sherlock sits forward to confirm the address with the cabbie and once he slides the window shut and settles back in his seat, John catches his cheek in his hand. “You were stunning,” he whispers. “I want to kiss you to pieces, right now.”

“Three,” answers Sherlock quietly. “It’s two past twelve.”  

John knits his eyebrows, and then licks his lips.  “Ah.  It’s late, right.  Three kisses.” Sherlock makes a noise of protest.

John’s first kiss is well-placed: to the ear, a bit of tongue, warm and breathy.  Sherlock shivers and smiles.  The second, a bit later, is longer, with Sherlock’s scarf pulled aside an inch or so.  It is also wordless, pressed to the jugular.  The third will come just before the car stops at Baker Street, when Sherlock’s nerves are pulled tightest. A small kiss to the cheekbone: _oh, you meant three months?  The most amazing I’ve ever had, and here I am, holding back, you beautiful creature, my dearest friend in the world?_

John smiles and looks away as Sherlock nearly drops his house keys on the front steps, trying to work open the wet lock. 


	76. That would explain a lot

Sherlock’s eyes are heavy but his mind is active with (tedious) thoughts.  A sleet storm had made the entire day dark, and his work on typing up a hydrolysis regime proposal had proceeded as slowly as his overly-experimental minestrone soup on the cooker.  John had come home tired from work, dizzy and in need of rest.  He’d got into pyjamas and they’d taken their soup bowls to bed for supper; John had turned in for the night just afterward, with his stomach warm and full.  The late evening news had been exasperating, and two articles _(Apiary hygiene and honeycomb pathogen avoidance strategies,_ and another, _Applications of oxytetracyline in European Foul Brood control)_ had made Sherlock unexpectedly reflective about his lost swarm.  A cup of tea and honey (getting low in the jar, now -- he will drop a hint) and some pacing about the living room had proven unhelpful; Sherlock had picked up another of John’s old case notebooks.

***

_A piece of brown drawing pencil lead under the skin, not a freckle.  Matched the broken pencil in the rubbish by the suspect’s desk.  Home late and had to call C and apologise.  Not understanding, prob over now, don’t blame her.  Will not call me.  Pissed off & S in the part of f-ing prat won’t talk after saying she was in it for the sodding drinks. / S sleeping constantly during days and rushes out at night, doesn’t say where or why.  When I have a friend to meet now f-ing interrogation about it.  WTF like a jealous girl that I didn’t tag along to the f-ing morgue.  Write that one up.  How my flatmate is a dickhead!!! _

_Killer a professional martial arts teacher, unusual weapons, big collection. S. recognised marks from throwing star on neck, illegal in UK.  Amazing!  No knife wounds.  He was right.  Left me at P. Station though w/ no wallet so jumped stiles in Tube like f-ing idiot._

_Croydon slasher arrested tonight!  Plainclothes female officer w/ nerves of titanium.  Scratch to her arm but unharmed.  Brave bird.  Hard to watch that happen.  Waited about three hours.  Window in attic, with G and S.  Bloody humid and stuffy.  S is a genius, knew he’d pass through there and try sth!  Caught red-handed literally.  Investigation will show his involvement in four stabbings. England without S would crumble into the sea after a week, I swear.  They can’t do anything right or fast on their own._

_Bizarre case.  Scented carpet powder used in closed room to remove dog urine stench from area rug led to loss of consciousness.  Crime during that window of time, in other room.  S commented there’s a rich world of scent that few people pay attention to.  Will check that if Cindy ever calls me back.  Dogs, he says, perceive “enviably rich olfactory data”._

***

After half an hour or so, Sherlock sets the notebook down and rubs his eyes.  He cleans his teeth and face and goes to his room, where John has already been asleep for more than three hours.  He crawls under the duvet and puts his nose against the rich world of scent that is John’s hair;  John rolls over in his sleep to take him in one of his arms.  Soon, experimentally, Sherlock kisses John’s cheek and chin, lightly.  To that, John stirs and smiles, mumbling disjointedly as he moves closer and tries to hold Sherlock’s hand.  That he is so demonstrative in his sleep is stirring -- _no, arousing.  It tempts (one) to put out a hand, and feel one’s way down the sandy-haired Captain’s back, to fondle him._  Sherlock sniffs him again.  _Unconscientiously, at first._   _But the form of his backside -- back -- becomes more and more affecting.  So much that -- no, no.  Yes._ Sherlock unties his dressing gown and flicks the tie noiselessly aside.  _When awake, he might decline.  In his sleep, he is easy.  I am -- merely an erotic dream, here in the barracks._ Sherlock’s fingers slide into John’s pyjama front, a snap giving way under his thumb.  John hums quietly.   _Not so quickly, no.  You will want it to be fast and quiet, so the others won’t know.  If I want to enjoy you, it will have to be like this, naughty soldier, when you are still ignorant in sleep._   Sherlock reaches into his dressing gown and wraps his fingers around his cock.  It is nearly impossible not to moan against John’s neck as he pulls his hand over himself, slowly at first.  _Captain John Hamish Watson -- mmmmm, my -- John._ He can’t resist kissing John’s shoulder.

“Hmmm, love, wh -- mmm --”  John slowly opens his eyes and catches Sherlock, who wants _very_ much to be caught.  And questioned.  And held.  And kissed.  Through a not-guilty smile, Sherlock whispers, “Don’t be cross, Captain.  I just wanted to look at you.” 

John grins and mumbles that it's all very, _very_  fine.  His voice is husky and slow from sleep; his initial surprise has already given way to the first of many deep, sensual kisses that night.  John looks down and pulls the fabric of his pyjama open more, invitingly, and runs a finger along Sherlock ( _yeah, wants it bad_ ).  “But you know what happens,” John whispers back, rubbing a knuckle along Sherlock’s jawline, “if someone hears us.  Fraternising.”

Sherlock groans and John kisses him and tells him to stay very quiet, there under the blankets.  “Won't say a word,” Sherlock mouths back.  He is rewarded with crazed kisses.  Crazed, but far quieter than usual, from John (he wants to play along).  He pushes Sherlock down on his back and reaches to brush his fingers over his hip.  Sherlock’s cock dips between John’s thighs for a moment as John pulls himself up enough to get a hand in Sherlock’s drawer.  “We get so lonely,” he whispers, as he kisses Sherlock’s cheek sweetly.  “Miss the comforts of civilian life.  Really bad.”  Sherlock stifles several sudden questions.  “But let me tell you something,” John continues, guiding his friend’s leg around his own thigh.  “Are you listening?”

“Mhmm.”

“Shh,” John says, putting his lips against Sherlock’s ear.  “You’re _nothing_ like _anyone_ I’ve seen back home.”

“Oh?”

“No.  Can I look at you again?” John pushes Sherlock’s dressing gown off his hip and shoulder.  “And you chose my bed?”  He kisses and licks circles against Sherlock’s chest.  

"Yes."

“How did I get so lucky?”

“Not luck,” Sherlock answers quietly, watching the progress of John's hands and willing himself not to tense up.

“Dreaming all the time.  Dreaming this.”

“No.  Neither of us are.”

“If someone found out what I’m about to --”  (John presses a finger against Sherlock and licks his lips.) “-- do -- I'd have a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, yes.”

John smiles to himself; this is nearly story-telling, about one of Sherlock’s rarely-expressed fantasies (now definitely one of his, as well) and he doesn’t want to stop.  But there’s something he needs to know --  _it always hurt you, are you really okay?_   He kisses Sherlock’s lower lip and tongues it, sucking it and rolling it gently in his teeth, listening to Sherlock respond quietly, choking a word or two back, before he asks, already breathless at the thought -- “Love, did you like it -- when -- we were -- drinking wine --“

“Mmmm -- yes --”

John pushes his fingertip in.  “Know what I need, don’t you.”  John works his finger, tentatively, deeper.  “Away from home so long.  Want it so bad.  Oh, you’d like that, too, wouldn’t you.   _There_.”

“J -- _ahh_ \-- “ 

“-- In bed, you -- had your legs,” John pants quietly, kissing Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock nods.  "Yeah, like -- "  Sherlock puts his arm around John’s back and John pushes in another finger.  “No, leave it on for me.  Leave it.  So sexy as you are.  In _my_ bed, out of all the officers.  Of everyone you might have chosen.”  The playacting is over, now.  When John stares down at him, Sherlock sees that his face is filled with respect and admiration, man to man.  It feels profoundly calming to see it, and take it in for a moment, in spite of the burn of inexperience and a twinge of concern that follows.  “A beautiful creature like you -- my -- hmmm -- _oh, love_ \--”  Tonight, four very slow and very long thrusts are enough for John to open his man (who has accidentally counted because he is overexcited).  And long after they have finished each other (touching, licking, kissing), when they are tired and smiling in each other’s arms, deep in the night, all those same feelings still lie within the very few words they express aloud (and many they needn’t) before they are both fast asleep.

***

The Holmes brothers have had a lengthy, tense discussion about the changes in administration at the Yard and growing consternation in the press about two high-profile cases of mistaken identity and wrongful arrest, one of which is about to be taken through the courts; a father of four has attempted to hang himself after twenty days of imprisonment and the loss of his job and local reputation; he has emerged with severe memory impairment; the public is outraged.  The conversation has gradually turned to John's health.  Mycroft’s prickly cynicism stands in such contrast to John’s approbation that Sherlock’s mind defensively drifts to their conversation over breakfast.   _Congratulations, love, I knew they’d want to print that one.  Of course they would.  You completely blew my mind last night, again.  One more, before you go, beautiful phoenix.  One more kiss._ Sherlock’s fingers are laced in front of him, his elbows propped on the armrests of a chair in Mycroft’s office.  “You insulted him.”

“A man of simple construction is easily insulted,” Mycroft replies.

“Arsehole.”

“As I said.”  Mycroft rolls his eyes.  “Dull, is he?”

“He _suffers_.”

“Lord knows how much.  And it must be positively nightmarish to recover from a blow to the head around you.” Mycroft sniffs with amusement and stares down at the back of his hand.

“He will most likely have headaches for _months,_ ” Sherlock replies, incensed.

“Undoubtedly.  Ah, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re about to imply that I was somehow to blame.  That while texting sweet nothings to you, with a nagging hangover, he wandered into cross traffic that morning.” 

“Why, then?”

“I offered my car, he refused.”

Sherlock presses his teeth together.

“Ask him,” Mycroft says.  And smiles.

“What.  What was _that_ for.”

“You _have_ asked.  You’re really asking _me_ what he won’t tell _you_.”

“What did --“

“I take it from the ring there in your pocket that he knows what ails you, _Thomas Barker?”_

 _Saw the press photos, got inquisitive, or -- before?_    Sherlock frowns.  “Which is?”

“In place of your waning career.”

“Career?”

“ _That_ career?  The one _you_ chose against all logic and reason to undertake, and then forfeit?  That one.”

“Let it go, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I have.  How long did you think we’d carry on sweeping up after you?”

“Sweeping up.” Sherlock snorts. 

“Moving on, then.”

“Yes?” Sherlock shrugs as if expectant.

“Not entirely uninteresting, is it?  Your soldier is willing to watch it happen if it means keeping you well.” 

 _Not a bluff.  What?_  “What are you implying?”

“His determination is admirable, if nothing else.”

 _If nothing else?_   Sherlock grinds his teeth.

“He is a man who craves adrenaline,” Mycroft says.

“And?”

“And you don’t even see what I’ve been trying to show you, _stupid_ _child_.”

“Right you are.”

“So _think_.  What has he already begun doing, now that you aren’t running about London together chasing miscreants for the Yard?” 

“Mmm.”

“Once the thrill of living with a murderer is gone, well.  What has he done in the past?  You could start there, really.” 

That hurts.  “Mmhmm.”  Sherlock closes his eyes for moment, absorbed.  

He reopens them as Mycroft continues, “Why _you_ , of all people, unless he thought he had something to bandage up?  A case to look after?  Take care of?”

Something deep has snapped. 

Sherlock picks up the cut crystal decanter of Armagnac from the table next to him.  He admires it one last time -- and throws it to the oak floor.  It makes a spectacular sound.  Rage and relief seem to pull him in two directions; for a moment, he nearly lowers his guard enough to allow it to form an open smile.  That much he restrains, pressing his teeth together.  Mycroft’s and his shins are spattered in a fortune’s worth of forty-year-old distilled wine; Sherlock has filaments of glistening crystal glass stuck to the toes of his shoes.  “Untoward,” he finally remarks, as he uncrosses his knees. 

Mycroft is hot around the eyes:  it is a lethal glare that on any other day would have a withering effect.  “Leaving a wreck behind.  How very -- _you,”_ he foams.

“You have people,” Sherlock answers.  “They’ll sweep it up for you.”

“ _Imbecile._ What have you _done?_   That was your _father’s!”_

Sherlock takes a deep breath.  “No.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hisses warningly.

“My father didn’t fancy crystal.  Consider it a favour,” Sherlock says, as he stands up from his seat.  He glances meaningfully at the floor as he buttons his jacket nimbly.  “Lead has been leaching into your aperitifs for years, as I’m sure your urologist would agree, _Miles Hallworth.”_   

Mycroft seems to have understood, at the very least, that he has nothing whatsoever to say. 

“Let him be,” Sherlock tells his brother, and then straightens and adds, “mine.” 

Sherlock’s ears seem to reverberate with the splintering of the leaded glass.  He does not expect a response, to _any_ of the interpretations that Mycroft should draw, and he feels quite free to leave in what he knows rationally is complete silence; his head is humming and pounding. 

 _A test.  Indeed.  Of mentioning the man aloud:  my father_.  _Went rather well, John.  Mycroft’s face -- nearly the exact shade of pale one would expect._   Soon Sherlock’s heart seems to have tapered into a sore, narrow funnel, draining straight to the gut.  When he steps outdoors he nearly chokes as the cold air hits his throat.   _A scheduled chat about a biopsy, and I need a smoke.  Imbecile._

Sherlock comes home to see John at the living room table at his laptop.  “Hey, love,” he says, smiling and tipping his chin up.  He is poking around at the keyboard with his index and middle fingers, writing and humming to himself contentedly; the telly is blaring behind him.

_“...in what Kimball called the ‘shocking and deplorable truth’ about police effectiveness.  Join us at five for an in-depth report:  The Year in Police Brutality.  Learn how to evaluate the effectiveness of your local police force with guest psychologist and profiler, formerly of New Scotland Yard, Ada Stonebridle.  At five-ten, see how crime stats compare in your corner -- “_

John picks up the remote control and switches off the news channel feed.  His nose is catching up, now.  “Have you -- been smoking?  Sherlock, why?  And what's happened to your shoes?”

Sherlock has his ring in his fingers; he sets it on the table next to John.  “Explain.”


	77. A phoenix in a cage

“Uh, okay?  What about it?” John asks, looking down at the gold band between them.

“The significance of this ring,” Sherlock replies, and the flatness in his voice is already setting John's nerves on edge.

“I thought that was clear enough.”  

“You gave it to me after I showed you my file,” Sherlock says, firmly.

“What?  Well, yeah, but --” John has turned away from his laptop with a shrug.

“Because of Thomas Barker?”

“Well, maybe indirectly, yeah.  But.”

 _“Unacceptable!”_ Sherlock retorts, raising his tone harshly.  He looks _hurt_.  John is thrown off completely.  He considers asking if Sherlock has taken a blow that he cannot see -- _in a fight somewhere?_

“Oh, yeah?  Why is that?” John asks, his eyebrows raised slightly.

 _“Nnngh!”_  Sherlock knocks the chair next to him against the table and moves suddenly to leave the flat again.

"Hey --" John springs from his seat and catches his friend by the sleeve, jerking him back roughly.  "Not _leaving_.   _Sit!_ Hmmm, shit.”  John closes his eyes for a moment and pinches the bridge of his nose; a sudden lunging movement forward is still enough to make him lightheaded; they both know it.  "Talk to me.  What."

Sherlock frowns, sniffs angrily and stays where he is standing.  He does not come closer, nor does he sit down.  He stuffs his fingers into his trouser pockets.  Affronted.  “Mycroft said something to you before your accident.  Tell me what he wanted from you.”

 _Visiting your brother, just now._ “Sherlock.”

“Explain, John.”

John's jaw stiffens.   _What._  

Sherlock is impatient.  “He threatened you that day.”

“Don’t,” John mumbles. 

“I’ve known for some time.”

“Hmm.”

“What did he threaten to do.  Now.  Say it.”

“That I wouldn’t see you.”

 _“See_ me.  Meaning?"

“He'd separate us."  

“Mmm.” 

"End things.  Terminate our relationship.   _That's_ what he said.”

“Tell me what he wanted from you.”

“I don’t know.”

_“John.”_

“I don’t _know!”_

“Deduce!  Speculate!  _Guess!”_

“About you and me in the future.”

“ _What_  about you and me, in the future!”

“Your.” John shakes his head once and closes his eyes.  A headache is hitting him, hard.  “Access.  Closing it down on you.”

“And?”

“Then.  See, you already seemed to feel it.  Know about it.  And Lestrade made it sound like you know about it, too, so I don’t know what Mycroft wanted from me.”

“What?”

“About turning the tap on your career.  So, there.  There we are, love.  Yeah." 

“John.  Calmly.”

“Can’t lie to your face.  Maybe I’ve fucked up, now.”  John raps his fingertips roughly against the tabletop and punctuates it by setting his fist against it and rubbing his knuckles nervously back and forth, as if polishing it.  

Sherlock swallows.  “About what.  Lie about what.”

“Letting them retire you.  Not _retire_.  I mean, push you out so you can’t work on important cases.”

“Calmly.  I don’t entirely understand.”

“Pointless.  Bloody pointless.  It’s not in _anybody’s_ interest, for fuck’s sake.  The public’s, the Met’s, I don’t get it.”

“You mean.  _That_ is why you’ve been so disturbed, all this time?  Regarding my work?”

“Sher --”

“Is that all?”

 _“All?”_ John seethes, suddenly, his hands curling over the edge of the table.  “All!  Hah.”

“No.”  Sherlock sighs.  “Not what I meant.  Tell me whatever you know.”

“I don’t know anything.  Or.  Maybe I do.  Hmmm.”  _To show my complicity to Sherlock, later?  Maybe I was right.  Fucker._

"What interest would Mycroft have in saying that to you?  Think."  Sherlock's eyes are searing into John's.

“I’ll lose my mind, if.  He, yeah.  Does any shit now.”

“John.”

“I’m serious!” John growls.

“I know you are.  What were you about to say.”

“Maybe.  Show you that he can pull weight with me?”

“Pull weight?” Sherlock repeats, snorting shortly in his nose.

“To -- show you that I would choose the lesser evil?  God knows.”

“The lesser evil.”  _Staying by me.  No.  You wouldn’t.  You would not.  You wouldn't._

“No, I don’t know.  Playing with my head, just to show it.  To take the piss.”

“Ice.”  Sherlock mumbles, and backs away, toward the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock brings an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped in a kitchen towel. John grunts as he takes it and presses it against his forehead.

Sherlock paces a bit in front of him, rubbing at his lips with his thumb.  “John.  He informed me after I shot Magnussen that I am ‘a living and breathing conflict of interest to England’.  To him as well.  Tarnished image and what-not.  Considers me expendable, as I told you.  I often expect it.”

“Expect what.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “By default, you live under near-constant surveillance, with me,” he says.

“Fucking tired of it.  So _tired_ of it.”

“Yes.  Understood.  But _you_ didn’t know that _I know_ what he was planning on doing, from above.” Sherlock frowns.  “I didn’t expect it to start now.  Nor did I imagine that he would draw _you_ into it, this way.  That is irregular of him.  Then again, at the time, I didn’t imagine that you would --” (Here, Sherlock struggles for a moment before deciding on the word) “-- care so much.”

“Damn it.”

“There’s no other explanation.  A test.”

“Well, of course I.  What?”  John presses his palm against his temple.

“It’s not the first time he’s questioned it, though I didn’t recognise what he was trying to say.”

“It?  Questioned what.”

“Your constancy,” Sherlock says through his teeth.

“Constancy?” John replies.

“He threatened you so that you would _stay,_ John.”

“Stay where.”

“Here.  And, you have,” Sherlock says.

“I didn’t see it that way, actually.  I think he wants to send you off, and I get in the way of it,” John remarks.  

“It’s quite plain to me what he meant.”

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t threaten to separate us if I _didn't_ stay.  ‘You won’t see him again if you don’t want to be with him.’  Come on, think about the pointlessness of that.  What for.  It wasn’t even _about_ that.” 

“There is _nothing_ more disgusting,” Sherlock says, indicating his ring on the table, “than to stay by one's partner, out of _coercion_ , or merely out of feelings of obligation.”

“What do you mean.”

“John, don’t you follow?"

"Not really, no."

"If I bow out sometime, to rest, which is not such an impossibility.  Doctor.”

“We’d go together.  I told you before.” 

“You first said that at a time when I admit I wasn’t certain of your feelings," Sherlock answers.  "As much as I appreciated it, you see that it was romantic of you to say so.  By romantic, I imply naïve.  And by naïve, I imply in-the-dark.”

“Yeah.  Sure.  Yeah.”

“Mislaid diadems for the royal houses, John.”  

They look at each other in silence. 

Suddenly, John nods vigorously.  “Hmmph.  Yeah, I see.  You’re implying -- hah.”  His nostrils are flaring and he hums in annoyance.  “Both of you think I live for a kick.   _That’s_ what’s going on.”

“It's enough to pick up one of your casebooks, there, next to you.  It's quite plain.”

“Maybe before, yeah, it was good.  Good fun.  But if that’s all I wanted, the ‘thrill of the chase’, I think I’d be doing _something_ _else_ , with _someone_ else by now, wouldn't I?”  John clamps his mouth shut; he regrets that remark, but it is the brutal truth.

Sherlock squeezes his tongue in his teeth to stop a cutting reply that has sprung forward far too easily.   _Speaking conditionally, not a threat.  He wouldn't._    When Mycroft’s car had turned a corner in front of him, earlier, he had been deep in thought about his appointment with the Hungarian engraver.  They are to meet shortly (Sherlock glances down at John's watch; he sees that he needs to leave).  It has been burning in his head that he and John will promise each other something, soon, and he knows what he wants to hear.  There is little he hates more than to feel pinned; if John were to feel pinned, to him, by his own brother, by a threat, or by a medical file, of all things, then -- he does not want to voice that thought, either.  He needs to to sure, however, and it is a _hateful_ state to be in.

John carries on.  “I _can't stand_ your brother's games.  But okay.  All right.  All right, I can go along with it.”

“There it is, then.  You do feel obliged.” Sherlock draws back several inches with a resentful huff.

“Think so?  That means you don't know me _at all_ , and you haven’t felt _any_ of what I do!”

“Not rationally connected, John.”

“What?”

“You may feel obliged in spite of those things.  More likely, because of them.  In fact, it is impossible for me to determine your motivation, now.”

“Motivation.  Hah.  And if that’s how you’ve -- gone and summed up what _I_ am, in all of this, then just fuck --”

“No,” Sherlock breaks in.  “No.”  He has folded his hands behind his back.  _A spreadeagled specimen in a pan of paraffin.  Pinned myself.  Astonishing._

John releases a deep, hissing breath.  “He _knows_ where to press.  Both of us.  See it, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

John gazes up at his friend.  As strikingly attractive as he looks now to John, he is pale and his hairline is damp.  This is costing him dearly.  “So, I take it you told him about -- well, Thomas Barker.”

“He’d already reached it,” Sherlock replies.

“He -- Jesus.  Drives me _fucking_ insane!  Has to dig around _everywhere?”_

“My feelings precisely.”

“Yeah.” 

“I think he is aware of them, now.”

“Why?  What --“ John glances down at Sherlock’s feet and trouser cuffs.

“No, no.”

“Hmm.  So.  Back to your question?”  John shakes his finger in the direction of the ring.

“Yes.”

“I gave you that because I love you.  Just to remember, when you want.  When you’re away.”

Sherlock swallows.  “Yes, I know.”

John hesitates; he is afraid -- nearly superstitiously so -- about saying some things aloud.  He opens his mouth and adds, “Even if you don’t want to be away.  Have it, from me.”

"Okay."

“Look.  Your story.  The fountain and the man waiting and the mistake, that one.  About omission.  If _he_ ever tried some _shit_ , if we were ever split up, it wouldn’t come from me.  It would break me in half.” 

Sherlock stares at him intently and then says, quietly, “Always yourself.”

“He thinks I need encouragement, looks like.”

“I don’t entirely blame him for thinking so.”

“Hmm.  Don’t say that.”  John reaches out to touch Sherlock’s arm.  “He's been fucking with your head.  For _decades.”_

“You don’t feel coerced in this?” Sherlock asks, still stiff, looking down at John’s hand.  “The truth.”

“Nope,” John replies.  “I don’t.  Never have.”

Sherlock nods, once.  "Okay.  I'm going out again.  Got waylaid.”

“Long?” John stands.

“Not long.  Not in these, however,” Sherlock mumbles.  He walks past John and goes to change his clothes; he comes out in another pair of trousers.  He has one of his shoes in his hands; he has apparently just cleaned off the residue and glass, and is eyeing it in the light. “Rest, soldier,” he says, sliding his toes into it.

“When will you be back?”

“Two errands.” Sherlock goes to the bookcase and tips a slim volume off the shelf into his hand (one of Sir Karoly’s monographs, which the engraver himself no longer owns and would like to see again).

“What kind of errands.  What errands.” John has set the icepack on the table.  "I'm coming with you."

"Not that kind."  Sherlock approaches John and snatches the ring from the tabletop next to them.  He goes to shove it onto his finger, then looks up.  “You.”

“What?”

“Put it on.”

John blinks and reaches out to take Sherlock’s hand, and pushes the ring over Sherlock’s knuckle.  “Come here,” he whispers, and grabs Sherlock by the lapel to pull him close for a kiss.  Lips stained in nicotine, weak from slipping attempts at self-restraint, Sherlock cups John’s neck tightly in his fingers; he pushes his tongue a bit too roughly into his soldier’s mouth, resenting Mycroft all the more when he feels John’s pulse racing furiously against his wrist.  Sherlock runs a palm down his spine gently and nips at his lips; John is not able to respond to it as much as he wants to inside; he is too nervous.   _Don't leave._  His knees ache.  

“Your spaghetti.  No meat this time, peeled tomatoes, copious amounts of garlic and oregano.  Rye toasts in olive oil,” Sherlock says, when he pulls back.

John looks away and nods.  “Can do that.”

And in a second, Sherlock has flown out of the room, down the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind him. 

John wants to kick over the chair next to him. _A living and breathing conflict of interest to England?  A phoenix in a cage_.  _Who would put a phoenix in a cage?  Let him burn away, only to come back, still behind bars, every time?  What kind of monster could?  Write that down, maybe.  I should.  Or maybe not --_


	78. Voiced and unvoiced

Sherlock and Alex have just left an appointment with Doctor Mara Bhatnagar, a professor of cardiology, to consult the artist’s case.  John’s clinic is close by enough that they call him to meet for a quick cup of tea during his lunch break; when he comes to the cafe they've chosen, Sherlock is outdoors on the phone and Alex receives him politely at their table, with what would be a warm handshake -- _if his hands weren’t like bloody icicles_ , thinks John.  They exchange a few words about the visit to the heart specialist but John sees quickly that Alex is not keen to talk about it.“John,” he says, earnestly.  “I just want to say how sorry I am if you were offended by the photograph in the _Daily Mail_ recently.  Sherlock made light of it but it was absurd of them to infer what they did.”

“They do that, yeah.  I didn’t see it.” John shrugs and folds his hands on the table.

“If that’s what you have to put up with, I feel for you both, really.” Alex sighs.  “Ah, and I brought two drawings for you.  A sketch over coffee, and the other is an impression, on the day Jens Lindberg took me on for the project in Linz.”

 _And I made a bloody scene in the street, damn it._   “Can I?”

“Yes, well, of course, they’re for you, of Sherlock, if you’d like to have them.”

“Sure,” John says and opens the envelope he’s been given.  He pulls out the two drawings.  His mouth drops open a bit.  “Wow.  Thank you.  Beautifully done.  But -- what was happening here?”

“He was watching a flock of birds.  That was at Trafalgar Square.”

“Birds?”

“He had a migraine.”

John sees something quite different.  And it gives him pause.  “Uhm.  Wow.  Yeah.  Oh, did she just say thirty-two?” John stands, clears his throat and goes to the counter to retrieve his tea.

As he reaches out to pick up his order, a woman approaches from his left side.  “John?  Oh, hey, how are _you!”_

He looks up, startled. “Oh.  Julie?  Hi, yeah,” Alex hears John say.

Sherlock has just returned from his chat on the phone; after a perfunctory look at John, who is standing with his back to them both, he slips his phone into his pocket and sits down across from Alex.  “The dental hygienist.  New haircolour.  Name still irrelevant,” he says.

“Oh dear. I relate.  When I was with my first boyfriend, on our first public date, ever, I ran into one of my ex-girlfriends at a club,” Alex says.  “Can you imagine?”

 _I missed that, too?  Always something._   “One of?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah.  Quite prickly that was, particularly that she’d had too much to drink and wanted to relive old times, well -- without my say-so.  In front of him.  Oh, she’s caressed John’s forearm, now.”

“And was he put off?”

“It appears so.  Oh -- you meant my ex?  No, no, he wasn’t, in fact, quite the opposite.”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, I think he might have -- just told her about you.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes.  “Mm, yes.  I see it in the window.  There -- we  -- are.” He smirks.

(“I get it.  Yeah.  You can’t make up your mind,” Julie is saying, through a simper.  John snorts. “Nope, already made up my mind.  We’re done here.  Take it easy, yeah?”  “Of all the people.  He's such a _prick_ ,” she replies.)

 _Prick_ reaches the table; Sherlock hums and raises an eyebrow histrionically.  “A bit of bathos for good measure.  Typical.  She didn’t care much for me once I’d told John she was living ‘in separation’ with her husband under one roof.”

Alex squirms.  “Oh, my.  You won’t be cross with him, of course.”

“Why would I be cross with John that a woman thinks I’m a prick?” Sherlock asks, smiling as he sips his coffee. “I’m considering how to thank him.”

Alex’s eyes widen slightly as he reaches for his cup.  “Tell me Jens doesn’t see women.  I wouldn’t have your nerve.” 

“Jens doesn’t see women.  Nerve?”

“Despite my aforementioned field experience with my own delusions, Sherlock,” Alex remarks, in a beautiful cadence, “I might have a hard time in a relationship with a bisexual man when I am certain I am _not_ one.”

“I fail to see what relevance it might have,” Sherlock retorts.  “To you,” he adds.

“If he’d -- well, one day want to go off to start a family, with someone else.  Please don’t look at me like that, it’s merely my perspective.”

“Perspective, no.  A fear, which is all the more common among those who _have_ families.  Absurd to associate it with what is, at most, nomenclature.  You’re generally far sharper, Alex.  You disappoint.” Sherlock sits back conceitedly and takes another sip of coffee, before recalling all at once that he’d briefly felt the same, at the sight of a photograph of John with Linda and Michael in Egham, sent on by Mycroft.  _Ask yourself -- who, despite wanting a family has settled for the poorest lot._

John is approaching them now; he is glancing cautiously down at the over-sized, steaming teacup and saucer in his grip, which he sets down before removing his coat and dropping it over the back of a chair.  His face is dark and pinched; Alex has gone tense all over in response, which Sherlock finds interesting enough that he misses a social cue over it ( _I have, haven’t I?_ ).

John sits down at the table edge between them, with a grunt that extends into a sigh.  “Yeah,” he mumbles, to remarks that none of them will bother to give voice to.  He will go back to work after another twenty minutes; he doesn’t say much beyond thanking Alex for the drawings.  He wiggles into his coat and slips his scarf around his neck as he looks down intently at Sherlock for several seconds; a heavy, breathless kiss plays out in his mind before he smiles warmly, and turns away.  Sherlock knows that John is also thinking ahead to their appointment in the early evening with an oncologist friend of his; his anxiety is palpable.

“Do you have the sable brush I asked you about?” Sherlock asks Alex, once John is gone.

“Yeah, I brought three sizes.  I wasn’t sure how fine they would need to be.  What are they for?”

“The _Daily Mail_ would like a follow-up, so I’ll show you Sir Károly’s work at my flat.  Shall we?”

“You have it?”  Alex smiles. “Of course.”

***

“Oh my.  So old-school.  No machine could cut like this.” Alex is in the kitchen with Sherlock at Baker Street, gazing down at John’s ring through his magnifying glasses.  “He is incredible.  At his age, and this level of -- detail.  Lord.  The _leaves_.” 

“My thoughts exactly.  And I plan to oxidise the relief so it’s more visible and less shiny.”

“You can’t oxidise gold, can you?  It doesn't tarnish.”

“Its silver and copper components do.”  Sherlock is on his knees, now, digging through a kitchen cupboard.  “I have a quart of hydrochloric acid and tellurium here, _somewhere_.”

“Delicious, to be sure.”

“This will turn gold black in several seconds.” Sherlock grins, pulling out a white plastic bottle.  “So will you help me, or not?”

“With what.  With -- melting John’s ring in ghastly acids?  Never.” Alex stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets defensively.

“Melting?  I’ll buff it out with steel wool, I just want you to brush the oxide into the relief, inside and out.  And -- give your honest opinion.”

“On?”

“Regarding an error.  Namely whether it should be regarded as such, because I cannot determine that objectively.”

Alex glances up at Sherlock over his glasses.  “Okay,” he says; he sees that Sherlock is quite serious.  He sighs.  “On one condition.  You do remember what we were going to do, the next time we were completely alone, here, at your flat?”

“Alex,” Sherlock replies through his teeth.

“Don’t tell me now that you were only teasing,” Alex says, cocking an eyebrow charmingly.  

The two men stare at each other for a moment and Sherlock shakes his head.  “ _The Pirates of Penzance_ it is," he grumbles, as he turns away and trudges across the living room to pick up his violin case; he opens it with a cranky flourish. “Deep, dark, _foul_ waters, Alex. You will not breathe a word.”

“ _Sapienti sat_ ,” Alex replies.* “Why would I want anyone to know how insidiously both of our older brothers conspired, from a tender age, to thwart all our chances of having rewarding social lives, Sherlock?”

“True.”

“As if being named Adalbert wasn’t stigma enough.  Do you even _know_ what they did to Saint Adalbert of Prague?”

“Yes, I’ve heard the legend. His body purchased for its weight in gold.  There was an analogous incident in suburban Moscow last year. The body belonged to a prized Persian cat, however.  Don’t breathe the fumes,” Sherlock says, rubbing colophony over his bow, as Alex goes to work on painting the relief of John’s ring in pungent oxide with a fine brush; he snickers and sings, as Sherlock plays for him, in a lovely tenor:

“In fact, when I know what is meant by ‘mamelon’ and ‘ravelin’, when I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin...something something I forgot oh thank the Lord -- there’s hope for me...when I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery, when I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery...”

Later, Sherlock, somewhat red-faced, sets aside his violin and returns to the kitchen to look at Alex’s handiwork.  He rinses the oxide off in soapy water and takes a bit of fine steel wool to buff the entire ring to a dull shine.  “Look at it now,” he says, handing it to Alex.  “See?”

“That is no error,” Alex replies.  “I would _never_ consider it one.”

“Okay.”

“What stone have you chosen?”

“That’s another matter.  If you aren’t tired, we’ll drop by Jermyn Street and I’ll introduce you to a nose.”

“I’m afraid I don’t entirely understand you.  Mine is more than enough for me,” Alex replies with a smile, standing up from the table and rubbing the bridge of said nose as he puts away his glasses.  “If you’re working around such horrid chemicals all the time, really, Sherlock.  You’ll make yourself ill.”

__________

_* Latin text:_

_A word to the wise is sufficient._

***

“He is no hearing well,” Oleg the nose says, waving a hand, when Sherlock appears at the perfumery with Alex and complains that his lapidarist cousin, Anatol, does not answer his telephone. “We will go, you will talk."

“Excellent.  And this is my friend Alex, a draughtsman and fine artist.  Oleg, who will one day find the courage to leave this cesspit we call London, and work in a continental cesspit, at one of the finest Parisian salons,” says Sherlock, indicating the Russian.

“It is no courage.  When I will speak in French.  Now I cannot do it.  Hello, Alex.  You are not the blue man, no.” Sherlock represses a chuckle as Oleg leans closer to snuffle at Alex, who recoils from him, more in facial expression than anything else.  “You are -- _уголь,"_  Oleg mumbles to himself.  “Iris Prima on your scarf, applied in the morning.  I make better the iris where no vanilla base-note interferes,” he remarks.  Alex does not understand that Oleg has told him that he is ‘coal’.  And that there will be no further comment on Alex's scent, because he reeks disturbingly of medications, as Oleg will complain to Sherlock another day.

***

John is tired after work; he is needy and quiet when Sherlock meets him at the clinic at half-past five to go to John’s oncologist friend for a talk about his recent biopsy.  John doesn’t mention the incident at the cafe.  He pulls Sherlock into his office for a moment and wraps his arms around him before they go.  “Didn’t have a chance to kiss you,” he says.  “Drove me insane.  Come.  It's at six, so, yeah.”

“A phone call would do, John.  What.”

Sherlock feels John’s anxiety surge; he is in a light sweat and doesn’t answer.

***

“Very low grade dysplasia on two removed with a suspicious profile.  At this stage, we monitor them and make sure their basal structure doesn’t change.  It’s likely others will appear in the vicinity of these,” the oncologist explains.  

“Yeah,” John says, nodding at his colleague.  He holds his hand out for the biopsy report and flips through it (for the third time), biting at his lips.

“Mr. Holmes.  Part of my job is that I sit here and read off death sentences.  To all kinds of people.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock replies.

“So, I like to talk to all my patients.  That way I get to read off a lot of life sentences, too.  Like yours.  Which is dietary and lifestyle changes for life, and monitoring this, for life.  It could take a far more serious turn, and needs to be kept under control.  Are we on the same wavelength?”

“Yes, we are,” John interpolates, as Sherlock opens his mouth to comment. 

“I understand a parent had cancer?”

“Both,” Sherlock confirms.

A furrow appears between John’s brows.  He tries to breathe deeply.  He has gradually shifted in his chair enough that his knee is pressed against Sherlock’s.  His round eyes are running over the collages of patients’ photographs behind the oncologist’s head, on the wall.  Many of them are children, no older than Linda’s boy; most are in head-scarves, hugging stuffed toys or pets. 

“We’ll plan on another series in a year, to make sure the profiles aren’t undergoing any changes.  That’s my main concern.  Catching further signs of dysplasia early.  Can’t fight our genes, but we can do a lot in terms of prevention if we’re working together on that, long-term.  Most cases remain harmless,” says the oncologist, as Sherlock fires off a string of remarks in his head referring to three schools of statistical research on the subject.  He has not come to bewail the state of the British male colon, however, and stays atypically silent.  John has just noted the fact.  The doctor, meanwhile, is studying John’s protective posture.  Sherlock discerns the precise second he finally sees -- _yes -- now you’ll suppress your surprise, as I do not match the cognitive blueprint of previously-known-partners-of-John’s, and there, right there, was a very wise decision._   The tension in Sherlock’s jaw suddenly loosens, as he suppresses a yawn.  He looks down at his hands, which are folded in his lap, taking in the uneven form of the ring on his finger.  And he smiles to himself.  It is well-timed, because the oncologist is standing to come out from behind his desk; he thanks them both for coming to talk, even if briefly and at an odd time of the day; John has started asking something about his colleague’s paper on familial adenomatous tumours; they recall a joke from the early autumn horse show in Ascot, which they’d both attended.  Sherlock has already tuned them out, returning just long enough to accept the doctor’s lengthy (rather firm and sincere) handshake at the end.

“Oh, wow,” John sighs, loudly, when they are in a hallway, for the most part alone.  He wraps his arm around Sherlock’s back and hugs him.  “Whatever we have to do.  Love, we’re keeping you well.  We will.  Yeah?  So, your father -- “ Sherlock has grasped his arm and pressed his lips crushingly (over whatever it was John had just meant to ask); it is incautious, open-mouthed and consuming.  

 _God -- yes._  John’s hand slips down (the coat interferes), he moans quietly against Sherlock’s tongue before he remembers himself.  “Did I just grab your arse in the middle of an oncology unit?” he asks, glancing away a bit and running his thumb over his brow.

“Mhm,” Sherlock mumbles, and pulls a nervous John closer again.

“Yeah,” John says, muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Tube or cab?” he finally asks. 

“The Tube will be at least eight minutes faster at this hour.”

“Good.  Let’s get out of this bloody place.”

“You don’t miss being on call at the hospital.”

“Not really, no.”

“I _liked_ your bed,” Sherlock remarks wistfully.

“So pick the lock on my old place, and.  What.” John looks at his friend, whose defocused gray eyes have snapped to life with _it’s not far, you know_.  “Hell, yeah.”

***

“Still one door.” John is staring over at the remaining mirrored panel on what had, until recently, been his wardrobe.

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock answers, in a low sigh that nearly distracts John from what is happening to his belt and buttons. “You first, John.”

“Hmmm, yeah.”

“Quiet, soldier.”  _The former neighbour and pet photographer with considerable prostate issues, returning from the toilet...now._ Footsteps hiss ( _cheap slippers_ ) in the corridor and a door whines before clicking shut.

For John, who can hardly process the hotness of what he’s seeing in the mirror across from him, keeping his mouth shut will be agony.  “Wh -- hmmm,” he mumbles, pulling away his trousers with one hand while Sherlock kisses him violently, very much as he had in the hospital ward, though he is far more resolute now.  Moving _damned fast -- quick and hard, yeah_.  John’s cock stiffens almost painfully against the long, brisk strokes of Sherlock’s palm -- no -- tongue -- _now_ \-- _oh fuck, yeah, faster...do it --_ already deserves a long litany of adoration that he really ought -- not -- shout -- though -- somehow -- _Christ, fucking amazing, God, his lips -- how does he -- so bloody -- good --_ (John stares at himself.  Sucked.  _Sucked off hard right here, oh fuck, too good._   Dirty and -- gorgeous.  He feels a surge of lust in his chest that spikes down his abdomen) -- _f - uck_ \-- _here -- all over again -- with you -- oh -- fuck -- yeah, ye - ss, ye - ah -- so good -- ah fuck -- fuck fuck so -- fuck -- good -- good -- f -- Sher -- Sh -- oh fuck -- yeah, good -- ah yeah -- oh -- oh God --_ John drops to his knees with a growl and grabs Sherlock’s face in his warm hands, heaving and dizzy, and kisses him, hard. 

“Gorgeous,” he whispers.  “Now give me yours.”  He is exploding with love and emotion.  “Bed.  Keep it all on,” he orders, and pivots on his knees, unzipping Sherlock’s trousers and pulling his cock out through his pants.  Sherlock is still trying to breathe freely after having John pulsing, thickly along the full length of his tongue (still aching); it feels gloriously bawdy in that nasty vacant room, which is empty enough that their breathing echoes; Sherlock’s thighs are already trembling under John’s hands; John is running his thumbs under Sherlock’s sac, through his clothes, lolling his lips and tongue lightly over the wet, hot head that falls forward from the folds of his flies when Sherlock leans down to pet John’s hair; John is enjoying the sounds of a much greater struggle for self-control, in his friend’s long, pale throat.  John takes him into his mouth as far as he possibly can, listening to his beautiful phoenix respond, one deep, soft sound at a time, as if in reply to John's breathing and lapping at him, below.  Soon, John feels him shaking ( _gorgeous, let go, let go like you want to_ ), more and more, very close.  His body is beginning to contract; John glances up, imagining that Sherlock is watching them both in the mirror, as he just had -- that he would want to see it all happen to him.  But it seems he is not able to.  He has his hands over his mouth and his eyes are tightly closed.  John breaks his rhythm for one last, hard, long lick against his palate, exactly as he would want it.   _That_ is the tipping point; Sherlock is lost; he rocks forward, shuddering and choking against his hand -- twice, three times.  John takes him down, slows and hums quietly at the end, to himself (he is grinning, near giggling).  Sherlock stares down at him, his own hands mostly useless -- as John is rearranging him, closing his soft flesh back inside his clothes (today, silk and then merino; layers; two too many).  It is a pity, Sherlock thinks, that they cannot stay as they are, far longer, slightly undone, a little disheveled and unclothed, and just touch each other.  They kiss on the small bed, recover enough to speak of leaving the place, and slip out as quietly as they’d -- arrived.


	79. The lapidarist

Anatol the lapidarist is not Oleg’s cousin, as it turns out, but an older second cousin by a second marriage who is in his fifties.  When the eccentric nose introduces the stone cutter to Sherlock, the older man initially responds with reserve.  However, he is poor at hiding how pleased he is to have a visitor. After scrutinising Sherlock with almost comical aloofness, he suddenly starts fussing over him.  “You do not need to take off shoes.  Please, sit,” he says, springing up to clear off at least two surfaces that could be interpreted as potential seating. 

The room has Sherlock keyed up immediately; it is a fascinating place.  In the centre there is a large, raised table cleverly fitted with multiple cabinets beneath; the top is cluttered with hand tools, patterns, machinery, and minerals of many opacities and colours in various stages of refinement.  Glass-fronted bookcases along an entire wall are heaving with fossils, crystals, books and papers, trophies, framed diplomas and other personal bric-a-brac; the contents are slightly less encrusted in the multiple layers of fine stone dust lying about elsewhere.  It has not been cleaned well for as many as seven years, likely more (if the lighting were better, and not a fluttering, squealing fluorescent, Sherlock would try to judge more exactly); cursory cleanings of selected objects of significance or utility to the man allow Sherlock to make numerous deductions in the first minute or so. 

The stone specialist himself makes for a remarkable if unaesthetic study.  His shapeless, hunched body appears to have sprouted hair in self-defence against the racket and filth of his lapidary machinery.  His ears are are tufty and caked with dust; the hairs poking down from his large, oval nostrils blend alarmingly well into a full moustache that also hides scarring from a clumsily-operated cleft lip.  He shuffles about in slippers that are threadbare enough to qualify as sandals; he has a dark blue plaid flannel shirt mis-buttoned partway down his hairy stomach, which he is rubbing at, having just noted his mistake.  He certainly lives alone and makes a fair living, but spends next to nothing on himself; going by a white bag of recyclables tossed in one corner, he seems to subsist on a diet of off-brand canned beans, cola, homemade fruit wine, and jelly-filled doughnuts.  His wine bottle has been handled more recently and far more frequently than the cola; a likely reason presents itself near the only window where there are (relatively clean) photos of children and a woman in dated clothing, near an ashtray filled with the butts of filterless and hand rolled cigarettes; those of the filterless (store-bought) cigarettes are dustier ( _sending most of his money abroad near the end of every month, perhaps)._   The only other clean(ish) personal object near said window is a cut crystal candy dish in the shape of a large brandy snifter, with fish and waves engraved in the sides -- _proud of it.  Sentiment.  A spare-time project piece.  A former crystal cutter; wrecked his hearing over the high-pitched whine of a stone wheel, listening to his work for imperfections in the mouth-blown objects, for years -- resulting in moderate grade, symmetrical sensorineural hearing loss, affecting the higher range of sounds_.  Oleg had mentioned on the way that the man cannot hear his telephone, his microwave, the doorbell or any other high-pitched signals.  Even now, he doesn’t hear a red enameled kettle whistling on the hotplate behind him but reacts a moment later to a large plastic rubbish bin being dropped closed somewhere outdoors. 

“Please.  Here.  Oh.  Water is ready.  Tea for you?  Oleg?  No?  Or something stronger than tea?  Hmph.  We will have.” He grins; his remaining natural teeth (six in all) are capped in silver.  “What are we do?” Anatol asks Sherlock, brushing his hands together and ignoring Oleg’s choking sounds as he slowly succumbs to the smells and dust. “Oleg.  Make tea for Mr. Sherlock.  No?  So, you need stone,” Anatol says.  “Or stone and cutting?  Setting?”

“Two identical stones, one as a spare, cutting and setting as well.”   _For blue man,_ Sherlock suddenly muses to himself; his eyes dart over to Oleg, who has just made a desperate sound and looks ill.  “Go home,” he tells him.  Oleg has no objection.  He has a quick exchange with Anatol, from which Sherlock picks out _damn stinks_ and _in front of guest_ and _our Natasha_ , though he is listening to the roots only.  

Once the nose is gone, Sherlock opens his wooden puzzle box and hands over John’s ring.  The lapidarist stuffs a magnifier beneath a pronounced superorbital bone (grown over in a thicket of salt-and-pepper hairs).  He mumbles down at it approvingly. “So.  Ah-ha, ah-ha.  No made by English.” 

“True.  By a Hungarian.” 

Anatol purses his lips.  “Hungarian.  Hmph.  Which stone you are wanting?”

“Show me your Middle Eastern stock,” Sherlock says.  “Nothing dyed or heat-treated.” 

Anatol motions for Sherlock to come closer to his worktable; he opens a cupboard and begins extracting flat, hinged glass boxes filled with little screw-top jars. “Untreated with good colour,” he states, inviting Sherlock to start opening them up.  “I make you tea?”

It is a delight to pick through the cases and Anatol is happy to talk about his beloved minerals for as long as his guest has questions.  Once Sherlock has chosen a stone and is about to start discussing terms, Anatol says, “We have drink together, yes?  Please.  I have delicate problem, Mr. Sherlock, I explain you everything.  Please.”

***

Sherlock is aware he does not hold wine well; he is now quite sure that he doesn’t hold spirits well, either -- though the comparison takes too much effort.  He is completely tipsy after two smallish glasses of vodka.  When he comes back to Baker Street, it is nearly dark; he sees John in the kitchen, wiping off his hands after having washed dishes; he stares at him a bit dumbly (and affectionately) from the doorway.

“Hungry?  Hey.  Have you been smoking?” he hears.

“No, no.  Second-hand, at best.”

“Drinking?  Love, you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t.”

“Y -- es.”

“You -- what do you have on your coat?  You’re dusty, all over."

“Change of clothes,” Sherlock says, “in the works.  Maybe.  John, we’re going out.”

“Uhm.  Where?”

“A street with sex clubs that notoriously hire naïve immigrants as strippers, a drug den or two, perhaps, a morgue as needed.  Coming?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“I know my John.  I knew you would."

“I want my Sig.  You’ve hidden it for _two bloody months_.  Almost.  Give it back.”

“Almost.  John, I love you.”  Sherlock’s tongue is free and it is easy to grasp John by the collar and kiss him. 

“I love you, too, beautiful.  Hmmm.  So, what's on?”

***

 _John, you need a good lay.  A fuck or two and you’ll forget her name.  Works for me.  See, her over there, she’d look good on your dobber and she’s on the pull, can tell.  Ehh, why the fuck do they fall over you like that?  What sodding magic coins do you have in your pocket?_   John smiles to himself.  _Jim, can’t believe you’re gone already.  Can’t believe it._

“If I tell you you’ve got a nice body would you hold it against me?” John hears.  He looks up into the face of a young (lap) dancer with saucy, wide green eyes and candy-like, glossy lips.   _Jesus.  Don’t._ She is wearing tall silver shoes with multiple buckles that are digging into her ankles, which he wouldn't have noticed except that she is running the inside of her foot up his calf.  Her light blonde hair is long and stick-straight, with a fringe of pink at the ends.  She needn’t have bothered with a skirt -- _which is really the point right there_ , John thinks, as she flashes a pair of narrow pink knickers that have worked their way into her waxed slit.  _Same colour as her hair, come to think of it_ , and at that John snaps back to reality -- Jim isn't here.  He needs to react. 

“You aren’t used to these places, are you, sweetie?” the girl says over him, as he opens his mouth; she swings her hair back and licks the roof of her mouth, showing off a barbell piercing in her tongue.  

 _No real right answer to that, is there._   “Uh, well.  I’m waiting for someone,” he says.

“And I’m waiting for someone, just like _you.”_

 _Sure you are._   Her shirt is thin and white, resembling a corset in that it is laced up; her nipples are clearly visible beneath it.   John coughs as the girl rubs her thigh against his knees.  “Don’t,” he says.

“Someone who appreciates a girl for who she _really_ is.  Ooops!” All at once, she is on his lap, tipping back so suddenly that he instinctively catches her. 

“Easy, now,” he mumbles.  _All too easy.  Damn it!_   

“Can I just stay a while?  Here with you?” she coos, moving her hips in light circles over his cock.

He lets go of her, though she already has an arm around him; if she wraps a leg around his waist, which she might in a second, she'll feel his gun. 

“Actually, no, could you _stop_ \--“

“Oh, I’m getting the feeling you don’t mind.  Relax.” 

“Really, just -- not --“ John clears his throat and shakes his head.

“So have you got a name?”

“Since nearly everyone _does,”_  John hears Sherlock rumble over his shoulder.  “Anya.”  Under his sarcastic stare the girl stands up, moves aside and slinks off. 

John’s first thought is how on _earth_ Sherlock knows her name.  Then he blinks.  _Is that the point?_   “Hmm,” John sighs, shifting in his seat. 

Sherlock glances down at him. 

“Find anything out?” John asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“Nothing new.” Sherlock is either avoiding eye contact or looking for someone in the room; John suspects the former.

“No?”

“More or less as I thought.” Sherlock sucks in his breath.  “An addict.”

“How do you -- where were you?”

“Talking to her ex in the back.  The club owner.  Goes by Kenny.”

John stands and they start for the door.

“Oh.  Right.  And you left me in here, getting -- yeah.”

“Ground against.  Repellent and appealing only to the baser impulses, yes, I know him a bit,” Sherlock says in an oddly ambiguous flare-up, “from a previous case, and he doesn’t tolerate deviations among his dancers, much less the ones he _fancies.”_

“And what about our Russian?”

“He threw Natasha out about a month ago, he claims.  For working on the side.” 

 _On her back._ “She could be anywhere,” John remarks, as they step outdoors.

“Mmm.  Or, anywhere near the smack den with catering by the same dealer that works the clubs on this street.”

“And if you find her?”

“I will.  She can't go far in her state.”

“Poor thing.  God.  So we find her high and take her back to her family.  She’ll be in withdrawal by dawn.”

“Mmm.”

“But they’ll be glad to have her either way, I suppose.”

“Not likely she’ll want _them_ to want her back.”

“Yeah.  That’s --”

“Yes.  Understandable.” Sherlock turns away.

“-- so sad.”  

“Not far,” Sherlock mumbles, picking up his pace.

When they are well along, John slows for a moment, as they approach a street corner.  “Wait.”

Sherlock spins around and looks him over; John seems to be biting at the inside of his cheek.  “All right?”

“Yeah.” John swallows.  _Not my bloody fault._   Though he might have refused more decisively.  He'll let it go.  He actually wants to express something like _this_ :  rushing along together on a case, which they do so rarely, feels a lot like old times -- Sherlock seems to be burning alive inside in his intellectual impatience and frustration with everything around him, John is excited about what might lie around the next corner.  It’s all so _good_ , right now, even though he is getting slightly dizzy.  “Amazing to be with you,” John says, breaking into a grin as he watches his friend’s eyes glitter (he feels it, too).

"Shall we?"

The lights change; Sherlock's face is suddenly side-illuminated by a crossing green.  John thinks it's bloody beautiful, and tells him so.

***

At eleven forty-five in the evening, Anatol is alert to the low sound of several rhythmic thumps on his door.  He checks his blinking telephone; he leaps up to open the door and sees Natasha, shaking and furious, clawing at her own palm, held upright on the doormat by a sullen Sherlock.  She sobs and howls at them both in Russian to let her go back to work, that _bandits have taken her captive_.  The string of crude epithets Anatol fires her way silence her temporarily.   _Shut your snout, you are breaking the heart of your own father and mother to pieces, you’ll go home, you self-loving idiotic pig of a child!_  The lapidarist grasps her forearms and stares at the angry red knots on her delicate skin.  “Hhhnnng!  Idiot.  Mr. Sherlock, thank you from heart that you did this.  I take this fool child to my brother now!  I call you tomorrow.  Thank you from my heart!”

John is waiting for him on the dark pavement outside.  It is about to rain.  They steal a shy kiss in a nearby doorway; John spies a spot ahead between buildings and they slip in, to kiss and nip at each other’s lips and palm each other breathlessly in the shadows, whispering to each other, just out of reach of a street lamp nearby; it starts to pour, hard; the cab ride home is long, damp and stuffy, but Sherlock is happy to have John’s hand clapped like a vise over his.   _Loves me.  Mine._

John comes first, with a shout, on his back, on the living room floor.  

“Couldn't even make it to the sofa.  Sorry, love,” he says, smiling up at the ceiling. "Dusty here."

“Not at all.” 

John giggles as he pulls down Sherlock’s trousers, stroking him, sucking him and praising him ( _beautiful, brilliant, everything to me, everything I have, so glad you're mine_ ). 

***

“I've written up another proposal that needs a read-through.  For the safety agency."

"Hmmm?  Okay."

"Pyrolysis tests with controls for the development of parameters in thermal decomposition rates.  For one of the new polymers.  Style only.  It’s presently eight and a half pages long and should be slightly shorter,” Sherlock says, drumming his fingers lightly on the surface of the kitchen table, where John is sitting next to him, reading the morning paper.

“I’ll look at it in a while, sure,” John answers, tilting his wrist and checking his watch.

“Thank you.”

John smiles proudly over at Sherlock as he reaches for his teacup.

“I’ve chosen your present,” Sherlock tells him, suddenly.

“Early.  Never one for Christmas shopping before,” John remarks, sipping.

“No, not Christmas.” Sherlock scowls over his unproductive disambiguation, and adds, “I meant that I have your ring.”

“Oh, really?” John lowers his cup slightly. 

“Really.”  _Evidently._

John’s face is pleasingly inquisitive. 

And it occurs to Sherlock that he might have been more ceremonious about things, instead of sitting in the kitchen, as they are, over crumb-filled brunch plates, half-drained glasses of currant juice and a scattering of stained Petri dishes, on a Saturday morning.  Then again, a more public presentation might _not_ be wise, he decides, referring to the sudden tremour in his fingers and stab of pain in his gut.

“All right, then.” John raises his newspaper, behind which he is grinning, broadly.  _Profoundly unhelpful,_ Sherlock thinks, and moves to take up his plate.  “Nah, I’ll get that,” John says, in complete contradiction to Sherlock’s thoughts.  “Do what you need to do.”

Sherlock wanders off to his room, paces, strips off his pyjamas as he does so, locks himself in the toilet and runs a bath.  Before he climbs in, he cracks the door open -- a lure -- estimating that no more than six minutes should pass before John appears, in a bathrobe, which he will shed to the floor as he hops in the water, sloshing Sherlock to the chin, offering an exceptional view of his body and an opportunity for seduction with a massage to the shoulders, neck -- _and so forth._   He hears the scrubbing of plates and John humming to himself as he pads about.   _Progress._

While Sherlock doesn’t have to wait an entire six minutes to see his soldier in the doorway, he is clothed ( _nngh!_ ) in sensible layers when he pokes in his head and says,  “Stepping out for a bit, okay?” 

 _Not okay!_ “What on earth for?” Sherlock asks, wrinkling his nose in annoyance.

“Uh.  Won’t be long.  When you’re out of there later, come upstairs.” Interestingly, John’s ears are turning pink. 

 _Progress, indeed._ “Okay.”


	80. Sherlock's choice

Nearly an hour later, John is digging around in a drawer (apparently for a misplaced shirt) when Sherlock enters his room wrapped in russet, skin still flushed and soft from his long, reflective ( _solitary_ ) soak in the bathtub.

“Hey,” John smiles. When he is close enough, he leans forward and puts his nose behind Sherlock’s ear, against his hair.  “Had a patient come in with lavender perfume a couple days ago.  Couldn’t stop thinking about you, naked and hard in a bath.” 

“Yet you didn’t join me earlier.”

“Needed to pick up _that_ ,” John says, nodding toward a paper bag that is standing on his desk.  “Wouldn’t do if my phoenix ran out of honey.” 

 _Went to King’s Cross._ “Thank you, John.”

"We need to test out every new jar,” John says.

“We do,” Sherlock assents. 

“Hard to wait through a quart at a time,” John tells him, pupils slowly overtaking the intense colour in the rims of his eager eyes.    

“True.”  Sherlock watches keenly as John goes to take out the honey; he unscrews it; it has started to crystallise.   _Wildflower._   John sets the open jar on his bedside table and sits; he holds out a hand to guide Sherlock down next to him on his bed.  “If you ever go back to beekeeping, _loads_ of small jars,” he says, slipping a finger suggestively into the knot of Sherlock’s dressing gown, twisting it loose as he leans forward to kiss Sherlock’s throat.  John unwraps him slowly, admiring newly exposed bits of warm skin and pressing kisses over them, treating many of them to small licks -- working slowly over a pale shoulder, across the more responsive, shivering skin of the chest and back up to his favourite angle of jawbone, near Sherlock's highly receptive ears, each of which he nibbles until his friend shudders and smiles.  “Eat you alive,” John whispers and nudges him down, stretching out so he can reach for the pale honey on his bedside table.   He puts his hand out for a bit of it, too carelessly; it is already running down the side of the jar, pooling on the table.  ( _Too bad._ )  He gives his finger to Sherlock, who sucks it wickedly and reaches for John’s neck. His sticky tongue and lips rove over John’s as he feels his soldier’s warm hands smooth over one of his thighs.  “Over.  All the way.  There, and your knee.  There, yeah.”  

 _You mad work of nature_.   _Beautiful creature.  Work of art.  Hmmm._  John is drawing small circles in honey and kissing each of them away with relish; four down the spine, three across the lower back.  One on each hip, and three -- over the arse. Sherlock can hear John smiling, even through his breath -- John is still breathing, after all.  Sherlock cannot, so freely.  Not now, when John is wrapping an arm around his thigh and -- sinking his tongue into the best-for-last of the circles of honey he has made with his fingertip. _Lewd.  Nnngh!  Libidinous, salacious, exquisite, excellent -- f -- antastic -- do not dare stop -- I love you.  Madman!_ “Ah -- no, don't stop.“  (John does not plan to stop, yet, any longer than it takes to lean over and dip another finger into the jar.)

John thrusts his tongue slowly but relentlessly, like he would give his cock.  Now.  He gives himself a few pulls.   _Be in you, so hot, and tight.  Fuck, need it bad._ He starts to get up; he is about to ask but finds himself grabbed by the shoulder and silenced beneath Sherlock's lips; he will not finish what he’d meant to -- _hnnnn need -- now;_  Sherlock is licking deep into John’s mouth; his free hand is clawing into John’s hair, tugging at his head and fiercely pulling him closer for more; John still wants to ask for him but this is far too good to stop, even for a hot blooded word or two.  Now, he just wants to move, like -- _that, yeah,_ \-- and he feels Sherlock shifting his hips to catch him in his thigh.  He lets go of John’s neck and brings them together in his hand.  John grinds his teeth at the thought of pushing him over and moving in right then; he licks the tip of his finger and lets Sherlock arch back into his touch ( _so warm, open him and fuck --_ ).  John bites and sucks at Sherlock's lower lip, moaning and losing his head inch by edgy inch, as their cocks slide together in Sherlock’s palm.  It is over -- far too soon, for John.  “Let go, beautiful,” he pants, “let me.”  Sherlock takes his arm from around John’s shoulder; John moves down enough to take Sherlock in his lips and bring him off with his tongue and finger.  Because he doesn't need much, this time; later, he finds he needs John very close.  He catches himself nearly following him about, despite the fact that they are hardly in separate rooms all afternoon. 

***

When it is close to tea time, John gives Sherlock his edited text and lights a fire for them.  His feet are stuffed into a pair of hand-knit socks (he likes that they are soft and isn’t put off that they 'resemble striped hornet nests', and had been ‘regifted’ at least twice ).  They are crossed loosely at the ankle close to Sherlock’s long, bare toes.  Sherlock is reading an article called _Ropiness Tests:  Foul Brood Disease Exposed,_ with an expression of revulsion and concern quivering on his brow.  John has received a surprise in the form of a packet in the mail from Rainer, the Austrian ballistics expert, with two English-language catalogues of gun parts and supplies for enthusiasts (along with holiday greetings and a renewed invitation to come to Passau in the early spring).  He is flipping through one of them and his tongue is rolling ( _temptingly_ ) over his lips; Sherlock looks up at him several times, about to open his mouth, but he cannot find a convenient way to interrupt his own interfering thoughts enough to start a suitable conversation, which he expects _will more than likely be of critical importance_.  He drops his eyes to a descriptive paragraph and diagram about the viscid texture of decomposed stillborn bee larvae, which is not calming in the least; he has chosen poorly this afternoon, in that regard. 

The word _choice_ is something of a _leitmotif_ in his present, circular thoughts.  He is seated across from a man who has chosen to be _there_ , with _him_ , and whom he has chosen (for it _had_ been a well-deliberated choice).   _There is little more to what we are than a series of choices, and to love is one of them.  Isn’t it?_ He even chooses to keep John’s present on his hand, every day, which he’d never imagined could become as natural to him as it has.  Already.  He turns it round his finger now, admiring its surface.  _Foolhardy romanticism -- delighting in trivia and trifles, often to the gross neglect of their raison d'être.  Pitiful.  You are like our Mum, Sherlock.  Adulating the mundane.  Elevating what is commonplace, where it does not belong.  Ah, and how is John?_

Sherlock takes a sharp breath through his nose.  “John, I would like to show you your present.”  _Give, not show.  Think!_

John puts down his catalogue and looks squarely at him.  “All right.”

Sherlock studies John for a moment before standing up from his chair and going over to the living room table.  “Come, please.”

“Okay.” John rises and follows Sherlock to where he is stooped over the table.

“Maybe to start, I will say a few words.”  John watches Sherlock flip open a small, old wooden puzzle box.  “Regarding --” Sherlock has John’s ring in his long fingers.  “This.  Which is for you.” _Obviously._

John stares down at what Sherlock is holding out to him.  It takes him several seconds to react before he blinks and takes it.  His first clear thought is that he has been given a family treasure.  But when he looks at it more closely, he sees from the sharpness and completeness of the engraving, inside and out, that it couldn’t have been worn before or refitted for him.   While it is modest and masculine in form, it is masterfully worked over in an ornate design of leaves that he momentarily associates with the red oaks in Sheffield.  It is superbly made, and he is amazed that it is really for _him_ ; it would match the personal effects of the landed at the _Glen Burns_ or the _Diogenes_ , or other such places where one’s very footing is a matter of -- family.  _This is for an unpretentious gentleman of standing,_ he thinks, as he tries to cough away the tightness at the back of his throat and listen.  Sherlock has started speaking.

“The oak and acorn motif in the band was relief engraved by a 94-year-old Hungarian, Sir Károly Simko-Vágner, trained by his grandfather, who decorated medals and personal effects for the Austro-Hungarian elite just before the Great War.  He sends his greetings.  The symbolism of the oak refers to your steadfast character, which I have always valued.  The escutcheon is made of Afghan lapis from Badakhshan, the shape signifies your military career, and -- the colour --” 

Sherlock is mortified as he watches John’s calm composure breaking apart, first around his mouth; his eyes are fixed downward on his thumb, which he is nervously rubbing over the surface of the engraving, the detail of which is astounding to him.  

“Perhaps you know.  The colour.  Or no, you haven’t seen it.  How would you, in fact.  Unworkable.  Without a mirror, which you would not have consulted.  John, don’t.  As you see, obviously, I chose a small signet, Victorian in appearance.  Always Victorian.  And long-winded about it.  Apparently.  But I expect you will wear it sometimes, and you would never want anything large or showy.”

John is shaking his head. 

“When we were in Wardour Street, you said that you’d be _damned if you_ _ever saw a motherfucking band on your hand again_.”

John’s tension cracks with a wet, awkward laugh at hearing that remark in Sherlock’s voice.  He runs his hand quickly over his nose. 

“A declaration which I admit I approved of wholeheartedly.  That is why yours is not in the form of a band, or anything like mine, really.  In fact, we don’t resemble each other, either, which is fortunate, if we consider the numerous advantages of being ourselves, together.  So whenever you choose to wear it, remember me.  Though now it appears I’ve upset you.  It was not my intention.  If you don’t care for it, you’ll tell me.”

“Amazing.  Like you,” John says quietly.

“It refers entirely to you, in fact,” Sherlock answers.

“Trying to catch up.” 

“Well, now that we are both complete wrecks.  Tea?”

John attempts a smile.  “Yeah.”

“You might sit down.” Sherlock turns away to go to the kitchen.  He seems dazed.   “Okay,” he mumbles, pushing his hair back off his forehead and switching on the kettle.

John drops to the sofa and watches Sherlock with glassy, dark eyes. “Forgot something --” he says.

“Clearly.” Sherlock glances over at him.  “What did I forget?” 

“All of this?  It’s all done inside, as well.  Some sort of lettering and leaves?”

“Oh.  The Hungarian suggested it anecdotally.  It was once engraved, hidden, on the inside of a chased watch fob.  For one of the Hapsburgs.”

John bites his lip and stares down at the inner edge of the ring. “Hapsburgs?” he mumbles to himself.

Sherlock is dropping a spoon of honey into a porcelain teacup; he licks at his finger.  “Yes.  As a gift to his lover, a foot soldier stationed in Vienna.  If you look closely, you can see it without a magnifier.  But since we were speaking German at the time, the engraver understood that I wanted it as it had been in the watch fob.  And so it is.  In-the-German.  Again.  Well.  It reads, ‘my first love is my last love’, in the older dialect.”  John has made a small, pained sound that Sherlock is not familiar with.  He glances over at him in alarm; his soldier has come apart completely; he has his hands over his eyes and is pressing his palms against his brows.  His shoulders are shaking.  “Unfortunately,” Sherlock continues, “I’ve never expressed that to you properly, so I asked him to include it.”  He brings over two cups of tea for them, though his hands are trembling badly enough now that he spills some of it into the saucers.  When he sets them on the coffee table in front of John with an embarrassing clatter, he feels that he is getting a crashing headache in response to what he is seeing.  “Tell me what you want me to promise you,” he says, and sits down next to John with his hands folded on his knees and his teeth pressed firmly together.

John looks very much as though he’s just been roused from a nightmare.  He is thinking intensely, and his eyes are glittering, moist, and alert.  He finds that he will have one request.  Because at this stage in his life, there is only one thing that he wants to hear from someone who loves him.  It has never changed, in fact.  And he has asked for it before, in various circumstances, in various words.  Despite that (or, _because_ of that), he isn’t able to voice it for some time. 

Sherlock waits, very still, with his gaze fixed closely on John’s face.

When he is sure he has command of himself, John states, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes.”

“You will not leave me behind.  Ever.  You _promise_.”

 _What do we say about promises?  Peripheral evidence of an internal conflict in one’s nature!  Anyone who promises love or loyalty is all the more suspect for it.  One should not allow a cognitive lapse to end in a promise!  No, Mycroft, no, you are wrong._ Sherlock looks over at John again.  _Twice engaged.  Once married.  Left behind in war, in love, in life, in death._  John wants him to stay.  Wants him.  To stay.  He knows he can.  He wants to stay by John with every shred of his being.  Will be glad to, as long as John wants him to, which he hopes will be _very_ long.  

 _Though to hope is such an irrational act._ Sherlock opens his mouth.  “I promise I will not leave you behind, ever,” he finally says.  And suddenly all the fears of being disagreeable, unstable, unsuitable, vulgar, boring, disappointing -- or ill -- pour out at once and Sherlock is glad to feel John’s arms closing around him so tightly. 

“Hey, now.  We’re all right.  We are.  I’m so bloody happy, can’t see it now, but.  Tell me, okay?”  John pets Sherlock’s wild hair down.  “Love, look at me.  What do you want from me, now.  Anything.”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Anything you want.”

 _Evidence of an internal defect -- no.  Not important.  Ask him._  “John Watson.”

“Yes, beautiful.”

“That I am your last love, too.”

“I promise that you are my last love, too.”

“Sorry.  This.”

“I don’t mind, at all.”

“Mmm.”

“Let me kiss you.  No, no, I’m no better, look.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know how you did this.  But.  It’s.”

“Wear it, sometimes.”

“I’ll want to.”

“Okay.”

“Here.  If you want to, put it.  Go on.”

“Mmm.  Suits your hand well.”

“Yeah.  Does.”  John is overcome again.  “What’s wrong with me.  Nerves are shot.”

“Not my intention.”

“You couldn’t have chosen better, love.  You know?”

Sherlock nods.


	81. The charm of the average death knell

Alex is gray and quiet as he sits across from Sherlock in a hospital canteen with his hand wrapped around a cup of tea.  “January the sixth,” he says.  He is looking down at the calendar on his mobile phone for the third time.  “Right in the middle of the week, it is.  Wrecks a bloke’s schedule.”

Sherlock snorts.  “On Mondays there are higher fatality rates which wreck a bloke’s schedule even more.”

“Having a particular date makes it very real.” Alex rubs at the bridge of his long nose, which is prickling with the beginnings of tears.

“If you say so,” Sherlock shrugs.

“Please, _don’t_ laugh at me now.”

“So don’t be amusing.”

“You are rather cynical today and I feel that it is poorly timed, Sherlock.” Alex swallows a sip of tea.  He watches several people leave a nearby table; one of them is crying openly, and it seems to agitate the artist even more.  “Though I appreciate your help in organising the consultations.  It _has_ put things into perspective.  Somewhat, it has.”

“That was the point.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm.”

Alex hesitates and then states, “You leapt off a hospital roof.”

Sherlock grimaces over his mug.  “True.”

“I don’t know the circumstances of your decision, of course, and I don’t want to.  But I do need to know one thing.  Did you know you’d survive it?”

Sherlock looks Alex over carefully.  He seems to be asking a legitimate question.  “There was potential for error,” he says.

“Great potential?”

“Yes.”

“Were you --”

“I believe I was quite numb,” Sherlock interrupts.  “You’ll also survive, regain your strength and carry on.”

“Yeah.  I hope to do all three.” 

“Odds are you will,” Sherlock says.  _Meaning, not hope but do,_ he would add, but suppresses it.

“Ha.  But I can’t reason with myself like you can.”

“It will all happen very much in spite of you.”

“I suppose from what I’ve read that John thought you were dead so I can only imagine how happy he must have been to see you again.  It must have been --”

“Another tea?”

“No, I need to go home.  Enough for one day.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, did John like the ring you had made?”

“I imagine he did.”

“What stone did you choose for it?”

“Untreated lapis, dark ink colour.”

“That would be lovely.”  Something is affecting Alex; he is tired and far too easily troubled.  Sherlock recognises it from John’s initial period of recovery, just after his street accident -- a gradual descent into unexplained, almost tearful frustration from pain and stress.  “Well.  You tend to laugh off whatever I might have to say about love.  Though there are some things which should never be made light of, no matter how foolish their messenger,” Alex remarks.

“Calm yourself,” Sherlock says almost involuntarily, though he is not entirely certain what direction Alex plans to take.   “Why would you choose to take it so personally?” he asks.

“I don’t take it very personally, Sherlock.  If I did, I would find talking to you quite unbearable.  But I was referring to something else.”

“Namely?”

“We are each a mortal, susceptible bit of flesh with a soul.  Start there.”

“I don’t --“

“Less cynicism, dear.  Unless it truly is a pose, meant to encourage philosophical bantering.  Which would be decadent of you, now," Alex replies.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you were asking me to consult a religious construct,” Sherlock remarks, and nearly smiles.

“Somehow you maintain this irreverence in the face of nearly everything and everyone.” The rise in Alex’s tone suggests barely-restrained irritation as he removes a pocketbook from his jacket.  “I may be talking to the wrong person about my concerns.”

“What are your concerns.”

“Ah, so shall I rather enter my problem _into a language parser_?” Alex retorts with aberrant irritation.  “I have no idea why someone with occasionally nihilistic leanings should even bother to push me toward this operation, as if it mattered.  To someone.  It’s all I have, as pathetic as that is.” 

“Too pusillanimous to make the choice yourself,” Sherlock says, a shade too defensively.  “You needed an external argument.” 

“That is quite the indictment, though of whom I am not sure.”

They look at each other in silence until Sherlock drops his eyes to his mug and glares at it.  He understands all at once and inhales sharply.   “Ah.  I did not mislead you at the _Hawelka_.  Have patience -- Jens does nothing by halves.  I see he doesn’t know how ill you are.”

“No, he doesn’t, on both counts,” Alex says, quite meekly, standing from the table and stacking four one-pound coins on the tabletop.  “You’re right.  And I’ll have to tell him, soon.”

“Get some rest.  Text me.”

“I admit I am quite out of my mind today.  Thank you for everything you’re doing, see, I’m acting like a spoilt child.”

“No.”

Alex’s eyes are filling with tears.  “Forgive me.  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” 

***

_Visit you at 2?  SH_

_Please do._

_At Dr R Kingmann’s with AN.  Receptive.  SH_

_Good.  See you._

Sherlock walks into John’s office wearing a suit and a striped tie snagged from his soldier’s collection; he has an attractive leather attaché under one arm and a paper bag in the other, both of which he sets on John’s desk.  “You’ve heard of Protopharm’s breakthrough once-daily for hypertension but you’ll be one of the very _first_ to know that it is now the most effective treatment for hair loss due to pore constriction.”  Sherlock puts his arms around John, who is already snickering against his shoulder.  “Said to a man who will never lose his hair unless he tears it out himself.  On my account.  A possible adverse side effect, only fair to mention it.   How are you feeling?”

“All right.  Good you’re here.” John sighs.  “Had to leave too fast this morning.  Didn’t even have a chance to kiss you properly.  Come here, beautiful.  Hmmm, you peddling meds.  Terrifying, actually.”

“Mixing a bit and checking out the corruptibility of one receptionist, could be useful.  Alex’s valve will be replaced on January sixth.  It’s been arranged.”

“Glad to hear that.” John is biting his lips, in contrast to what he is saying.

“What.”

“Nah, just.  A scene in the waiting room earlier on.”

“A scene.”

“One lady was demanding a change of doctor.”

“Mmm.  And?”

“Not keen to have me as a first-contact GP anymore.  Doesn’t matter.  Just that two other patients chimed in on my behalf and that escalated things.  Not what I needed.”

“I see.”

“On your way home, love?”

“There’s a press conference at the Yard this afternoon regarding the exposé you were talking about several days ago,” Sherlock replies.

“‘Sham arrest shame mounts’?” John smirks.  “Are they taking notice now?  Catching on.” 

“Lestrade rightfully expects enmity and wants to chat beforehand.” Sherlock says, petting the side of John’s soft head, to calm himself.  

“Well, if it’s true that their prosecution stats are dropping off a sodding cliff, then rightfully.  Yeah.  What have you got in that bag?”

“Sandwiches.”

John pulls away and goes to scrub his hands at the sink.  “Thanks.  Sorry, a bloody annoying morning.”

“Okay.”

“Stay a while.  The remainder of your eight minutes or whatever it was by the national average.  Hmmm.”

Sherlock takes a seat across from John, who is settling into his chair and unwrapping a sandwich.

“I’d like to get away with you,” John says, and bites into his sandwich.  “Yours are better,” he adds.

“Where?” 

“Hmmm.  Wherever.  Uhm.  I’d like to just shut all the bullshit out.”

“Okay.”

“Think of someplace for us.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, like a long weekend, or.”

“Mmm.”

***

_Genius Detective Sherlock Holmes Barred?_

_When the Police Sinks In Eyes of a Nation, a Nation Sinks in the Eyes of All_

_Two Rights Don’t Make a Case For Change_

_Brixton Outcry Over Police Beating_

_The Verdict Is In:  Justice is Out_

***

Sherlock returns from New Scotland Yard to find Mycroft’s car parked in front of 221B.  The rear door swings open across his path.  “Why,” he mumbles.

“Just a friendly visit.  Seems that at last a happy announcement is imminent,” Mycroft says, indicating that Sherlock _might_ sit.

“Is it?”

“The entire British press is calling for The Return of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Which has all the charm of the average death knell.”

“As it happens, I have a job for you,” Mycroft says.

“Like I said,” Sherlock says, in Mycroft’s intonation, and rolls his eyes.

“Then you don’t want to hear what it involves?”

“No.” Sherlock reaches for the door handle.

“You’d go uninformed?”

Sherlock does not care for that remark, at all.  _Go where._   “Wouldn’t be the first time, brother dear.  I categorically refuse.”

“Nesting, are we.”

“Piss off, for God’s sake!”

***

John comes home in the evening and finds a silent Sherlock at the kitchen table with a notebook splayed open and a pencil twirling through his long fingers.  He has three glass vials in front of him, one of which is filled partway with a brown tincture that he appears to be preparing to heat.  John leans in to kiss his temple and wordlessly ducks back out to go upstairs, cool down and change clothes into something softer.  He has got wind of the press conference that Sherlock had referred to in passing earlier; in fact, he’d been stopped on the way home in the street to comment on camera about remarks and opinions he’d known next to nothing about and the conversation had not gone well; he reckons he’s come off like a tit and wonders how it will be edited for the purposes of the evening news.

***

_“If it’s true that Detective Sherlock Holmes is not involved directly in police work, you have far fewer adventures to write about, Dr. Watson.”_

_“No worries.  Plenty of other entertainment to be had in the world, isn’t there.”_

_“I suppose our sincere congratulations are in order, then, Doctor?”_

_“Ah -- wh -- I meant, the public has other sources of entertainment.”_

_“About your alleged relationship with Sherlock Holmes.  Well -- speculation --“_

_“The public has other sources of entertainment.  Do you mind?  Excuse me.  No.  Excuse me, no more for now.  No.”_

John claps a hand over his head.  “Sherlock, I’ve had it for today, can’t listen to this.”

“Unimportant,” Sherlock mumbles against John’s stomach; he has his head on John’s leg and has curled up tightly on his side on the sofa; John pets his head and switches off the telly. 

“That’s -- really -- yeah.  Hmm, love, I’m not making any sense tonight.”

“Undress us in bed.”

“Wh - at?”

“Upstairs.”

“Hmmm,” John growls.  “Get up.”

“I want to take you to bed.”

“God, yes.”

“I want you, John.”

“Yeah.”

“I intend --“

“Yeah, and you'll do it, love.”

“Mmm.”

“Come on.  Need you, too.  Let’s -- yeah.  God, you’re so bloody hot, look at you.   _Jesus_.  Won’t make it up the damned _stairs_.”

 _Madman, I love you --_ “with -- John -- I love you with all my heart.”

“Gorgeous phoenix.  Gorgeous creature.  Everything I have, everything.  Come, love, I need to feel you bad.” 


	82. That's the whole of it

It is nearly three in the morning.  John sits up in bed with a garbled shout, sweating; he’d had another nightmare of darkness falling midday over the desert near Kandahar and his lost photograph; he is in a terror when he opens his eyes and won't speak until he can breathe evenly.  He’d insisted hotly on going to check the windows and locks again; he’d returned embarrassed and quiet just as Sherlock had come in from the kitchen, where he’d been having a half-glass of warm water. 

“Jesus.  Keeping you awake.” John rubs his forehead and glances up at his friend apologetically.

“Come, John.”

“Wish it would just.  Damn it.” John walks ahead of Sherlock and slides back into the blankets first.

Sherlock looks down at him as he takes off his dressing gown and drapes it over the foot of the bed; John pulls aside the covers for him and takes him in the crook of his arm when he is close; he pets Sherlock's side and his fingers trail over his hip.  

After some time Sherlock remarks,  “So we’re both awake and aroused.”

“Yeah, we are.” 

“Problem?”

“No, no problem at all.”   John kisses him.  “Tell me if.  You.”

“If I what, soldier.”

“Chose my bed again, because you liked, uhm.”

“Yes, very much.”

John shifts further onto his side.  “Giving me another taste of home, beautiful?”

Sherlock's fingers tease John through his thin pyjama front.  “Not something far better?”   _You said I was far better, after all._

“Hmmm, better?” John answers, pulling down his pyjama; Sherlock pushes it off of his ankles.

“Far more than just a taste, and better than home,” Sherlock says, running his palm up the underside of John's cock.

“You know you are.  You are.”  John’s hitched breath is a hot burst against Sherlock’s cheek as he grinds forward against Sherlock's hand.  "You can feel that you are."

“Hnnnnn.”

“Slow tonight, just like that.  And nobody will hear us at all.  Nobody at all.”  

Sherlock's mind flickers in and out of focus as John gently sucks him and fingers him, winding him up; he hums and praises him quietly as he relaxes and starts to ask for his soldier with the movements of his hips.

 _Vilnius.  Will not leave -- you.  Ever.  I will take you with me.  Gediminas Tower at night -- illuminated -- beautiful -- I will -- take you with me -- and have you -- nnngh -- J -- J --_  “Slowly, J -- oh -- _J -- hnnngh_ \-- “ 

“Sher -- love, feels so --” John is mumbling and sighing against the back of Sherlock’s neck, pushing into him slowly from behind as he runs a hand over his friend’s stomach and reaches to lift his long thigh.  “Perfect, love.  Love you so -- much -- God -- look at you -- so --“ He buries his cock deep and leans down to nip at Sherlock’s chest, running his tongue in light circles.  “Can I -- close, love, can -- I -- Christ -- feels so good -- _ahh!“_

“Yes.”  _Will not leave you -- will not -- mmmm, John --_  

John gasps and groans into Sherlock's ear, his hips shuddering against Sherlock's arse.  "Gorgeous.  So good.  So amazing.  No, no, no, please, stay here.  Stay, love, I love you so much.  So much, hmmmm."

"Need to go."  

"Don't leave now.  Let me pet you.  Stay.  Okay.  Not long.  No.  Let me."

_Will not leave you ever._

_Will not._    

***

John is cleaning up the remains of brunch in the kitchen; Sherlock is typing and clicking on his laptop in the living room.  

"We have a delivery of shopping scheduled for tomorrow at one," Sherlock says.   

"Good, love," John replies.

“John, I want your opinion.”

“What.”

“An idea of mine.  Come, please.”

“Right.  What is it?” John approaches Sherlock and wipes his wet hands on his jeans.

“This.”

“It's a satellite map,” John states.

“Yes.”

“Where’s that?”

“Sussex Downs.”

“Oh, nice.  Yeah.”

“Yes, very."

“So what’s your idea?”

“You and me, somewhere like this.”

“This coming weekend?  A bit cold now.”

“Not this weekend, no.”

“Nice to get away, with you.  Last night, you.  You were.”

“Mhmmm.”

“When, then?”

“As yet to be determined.”

“Meaning, when?”

“When I bow out.”

“Wh - at?”

“Bow out of the game.”

“Are you --“

“Sometime.  Few things are of such importance or interest that they can’t be consulted remotely.”

“Hmmm.  But.  Don’t you want to --” _go back to it when the press is openly begging for your help -- ?_

“One cannot clean up after the shortcomings of the Met forever.” Sherlock shrugs animatedly.  “There are other players who can take it on.  Or not.”

“But, who would -- who --?”

“I might sell off my assets at some point and buy a small place.  Oh.  Here.  Yes.  This.  Look at this...right...here.”

“What are all those little boxy things?”

“Hives.”

“Hives?  Beehives?”   

“Mmhmm.”

“You mean -- you want to keep bees?”

“Yes.”

“Like, full-time?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Loads of honey, then.”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.  So you want to --”

“Live with you, there.”

John licks his lips and looks carefully at the screen.

“I want you to think about it,” Sherlock says, barely containing his excitement.  His fingers are trembling over his mouse.

John hesitates. “All -- right.”

“When you’re ready.  Not now.  Once the clinic is well-established and thriving, which I’ve no doubt it will.”

“Well, we all really hope so, love.”

“You’ll keep your share in it, of course.  You might practice locally, as well.”

“I, uhm.”

“What.”  Sherlock looks up at him.

“Uh, you know --“

“Oh.”

“Well, just.”

“This isn’t something you’d want.”

“Well --“

“Tell me.”

John inhales through his teeth. “Not -- really.”

Sherlock presses his lips together and nods.  “An idea, John.  Nothing of importance.”  _Liar._

“No, just.”

“Just _what, John_.”

John winces.  “It’s not about -- not wanting to live with you.”  _I sound like an idiot._

“Mmm.”

“I’ve always wanted, well -- if not London, then....”

“Where.”

“Not necessarily out in --“

“Say what you mean.”

“By the sea.”

“The sea?”

“Yeah.  That’s.  I wanted to spend some years by the sea, not necessarily out in the middle of the countryside.”

“Mmm.”

“As _nice_ as it is there, it’s --”

“Dull?”

“What is.”

“The remoteness.  Boring?”

“No, no.  No, doesn’t have to be at all.  I feel sort of drawn to the sea, though, I don’t know why.  Always have.  Wanted to live there.”  Sherlock stares at the screen silently as John rambles.  “Uhm.  Like near Dover.  Kind of wild beauty.  Norfolk was nice, too, in that way, wild.  Hunstanton.  Rocks, sand.  Natural, you know.  Just it’s colder there, I guess, but it was relaxing.  The waves.  Yeah.  Good air.  That kind of place.”

“Okay.”

 _Damn it._ “I think I’ve gone and spoiled your idea.  Love, just --”

“Mmm.”

“This obviously means something to you, so.  Look.  We’ll think about it.  You asked me to _consider_ , so I will.  Of course I will.” 

Sherlock stands up from his chair.

“Sherlock, we can --”

“No, no.” 

“Listen --“

“No.”  

“-- I don’t _mind_ Suffolk.  Haven’t been, but.”

Sherlock has started pacing, and rubbing at his temple. “Enough.”

John backs away, unsure whether he should approach Sherlock or leave his friend to his thoughts; he is burning up inside, that much is clear.  _I’m an idiot.  He’s thinking about leaving London.  Bloody important to him.  Definitely is_.

“All right, I’m just going to --“

Sherlock turns on him, as though he were about to shout, but he says, “There’s something I want to tell you.”

 _Oh, shit._   “Yeah?”

“You’ve got quite close to it already, somehow, perhaps because of your intuition, no other explanation suggests itself.  Nobody could have told you, there is no evidence to that effect."

"To what effect, love?"

"You are often surprisingly intuitive, in fact."

"Maybe so, but I --"

"I admire that quality of yours.”

“Uhm.  Thanks.”

“I’m not convinced what I have to say will be gratifying to you.”

“Why not?”

“Sit.”

“Hmm.”  John slides rather apprehensively into the chair in front of the laptop.

“A story,” Sherlock says, his eyes flicking rapidly over a point near John's hands. 

“Yeah?”

“With rather ordinary beginnings.  Banal enough.  Commonplace.”

“Okay.”

“It starts with a passionate and intelligent woman.  A tall, pale ginger, with the brain of a scientist and the fiery heart of an artist.”

“Yeah?”

“A beautiful, _caged bird.”_ Sherlock’s voice is suddenly tight.

 _My caged phoenix?_  John watches his friend carefully.  “Yeah.”

 “She had a son.  And a husband who was distant, arrogant and ultimately unfaithful.  Had an _itch_ ,” Sherlock hisses.  “He betrayed her in their seventh year of marriage.  And, _‘apologies’_ ,” he growls, even more dramatically, “he sent her to the French Riviera for a summer, to sketch and relax.  Because she loved the sea.  Our Norfolk, for instance.  And she liked to paint botanical studies in watercolour.”

 _Like your Mum.  No, wait.  It is your Mum.  Oh, no._ “Okay.  Uhm.” John clears his throat involuntarily.

“To hell with this!” Sherlock snarls; his hands are clenched at his sides.

John’s eyes widen and he leans back slightly.  “What’s going on, love.”

“I don’t know how to tell _stories!”_

“I think you tell --”

“No.  This isn’t fantasy, it’s _veracity.”_

“Take it easy.”

“All the times you thought I was a complete bastard.”  Sherlock snorts darkly in the direction of John’s notebooks on the table. 

“What do you mean?” John asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

“You were right.”

“No, love, don’t say --“

“Listen to me.  When I was in my third year at Cambridge, I was visited by a solicitor from a _cabinet d'avocats_ in Narbonne.”

“France?”

“Yes.  And from one day to the next, I became sole heir to a complete stranger’s tumble-down house and a field.”

“Oh, God.”

“The solicitor had correspondence.  I was able to piece it together,” Sherlock continues.

“Piece what together?”

“An identity."

"But --"

"I told you once.  Sherlock is a _girl’s_ name.  Or at least it can be argued to be.  _Sher_ \- for _Chéri._  Or, alternately, _Chérie_.  Their endearments.  And _lock_ , for _Locquénolé,_ or in the Breton, _Lokenole._ Where my father was born.  Mum made a blending.”

“Really?  Uhm.  Wow.”

“She never referred to me as William.”

_And favoured you over your brother.  He’s jealous.  As all hell.  So obvious._

“Mum had been gone nearly ten years by then.  I hadn’t gone in for law, a pretext for my father to write me off.  Didn’t tell Mycroft, we’d just had a row over a chemistry symposium.  Ask him about it sometime.”

“I have.”

“And did he explain?”

“He said you’d wrecked a symposium, had got expelled, and had run off to Scandinavia.”

“He left out the most crucial point?  Well, well, brother.”  Sherlock sighs, loudly.  “And.  I very imprudently signed an agreement to lease that place as grazing land for 20 years, not caring to see the end of it.  And proceeded with the proceeds."

 _The drugs._ “Oh, God.”

“Mycroft found out the truth once he’d started digging to find the source of my money.  By then he was quite well-connected.”

“Must have been pissed off.”

“He still is.”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s the whole of it.  The sordid tale.” 

“Not sordid to fall in love.” John smiles and tips up his chin.  “Is it?”

“No.”  Sherlock feels lightheaded.  He presses his teeth together to avoid saying anything off-putting, though at this point he doesn’t even know what that would be. 

“So, your dad was a Frenchman, then?” John asks.

“Nikolaz-Pierrig Hinault, a retired mercenary sailor.  And fisherman.”

John nods.  “That explains a lot.”

“No.  What can that possibly explain?”

“Why you’re so amazing.  So much love in you.”

“Mmmm, John.”

“You’re absolutely unique.  You are,” John says.

Sherlock’s eyes flick over his friend; he relaxes slightly.  “Well.”

“Of course you are, love.”

“Thank you.”

“And she adored you,” John ventures. “Didn’t she.”   _Gorgeous, brilliant creature, of course she did._

“Yes.” _Foreign and festering in the flesh.  Pointlessly._

“Not surprised at all."

 _The sand, shining, brushed off his hands.  At the sea.  Dispersal._ “John.”

“Yeah?”

“The ending of this story is very much in our hands.”

“How is that?”

“I’m speaking off the top of my head, now, perhaps it’s madness.”

“What is.”

“Listen to me.  The 20-year lease on the place ended last year.  I signed an annex, most of which went to the U. brothers, in Ascot, in fact.”

“Damn it, I’m sorry you --”

“Not money I was proud of, and _not_ the point.”  Sherlock has grasped John firmly by the arm.  “The annex ends in a year and two and a half months meaning I’ll need to consider selling the place, or at least work out a new lease.  It’s gone to ruin, a bit.  Goats and what-not.  But I _think_ about them.  More and more.”

John grits his teeth as Sherlock’s fingertips sink further into his skin.  _Goats._ “Them --?” 

“Bees.”

“Yeah.”

“You love the sea.  Meaning our sea, or seas?”

“The sea, at large.  Seas.”

“Good.  Yes.  It’s -- good.”

“What.”

“Well.  It’s twenty miles inland, though the roads meander.“  Sherlock waves his hand impatiently.

“Inland, where.  What?”

“You and me.”

“What.”

“ _There,_ John.”

_Leave this place?  Leave England?  I know shit-all in French --_

John blinks and looks carefully at Sherlock.  His mercury eyes are flashing and shining, as if fevered.  “ _Consider_ it. _”_ He is speaking so earnestly that he is now breaking into ragged, nervous laughter at himself for it.  He is red in the face, with a familiar, maniacal smile playing over his lips -- which he is biting at a little, as his chest trembles.  

 _We could.  Keep him calm and well.  Happy and well, smiling -- like -- now._ John breathes quietly through his nose and takes up Sherlock’s long hand.  He runs his thumb over it gently, kisses the palm and sets it against his neck; he holds it there for a moment. _Love him madly.  Love him.  Always._   _Wherever._ “Don’t need to consider it, love.”

Sherlock’s eyes course wildly over John’s face.  He swallows. 

“ _Tout sera -- bien_.  Uhm _\-- je t'aime, cheri_.  We’ll be all right,” John says; his ears have turned pink at the sound of himself. 

“Mmmm.”

“Did I say any of that right?” 

“Yes.”

“Not a bad start, then?” John asks.

“ _Je t'aime aussi de tout mon cœur.”_

“I _think_ I understood most of that.  Hah.”

“I love you too, with all my heart.”

John grins.  “We could do this, yeah?” 

“We could.”

“When?”

“When convenient.”

John strokes Sherlock’s cheek with his knuckles.  “But.  Where is it?”

 _A warm and strong hand.  Perfectly steady.  The when and where of John._ Sherlock is still smiling, though he is quavering inside.  “Lagrasse,” he says.  “Not far from Carcassonne.”

“Wh -- the citadel?  That’s.  Southern France, near Spain.”  John’s throat has gone dry.  

Sherlock squeezes his teeth together.  _Rocky sand, snakes, forested hills, wildflowers, a ruin of a house, grass --_

John leans forward; he rubs his nose and lips against Sherlock’s cheek and takes a deep breath.  “I’ve never been.”

_\-- a sea the colour of your eyes when you say you want me --_

“Hey, now.  Are you all right, love?”

“Yes.”  _Very.  I would kiss you with abandon in the grass._

“So, what’s it like there?” John is asking.

Sherlock closes his eyes.  “Scenic.”

 

***

_END of PART 1_

***


	83. NOTES

I started writing this three weeks before S3 aired in the UK to use up some nervous energy.  While our boys were in Norfolk, and Sherlock had just told John he loves him, I watched the two shots in 3.3 and I very nearly dropped this story, mainly because of all the antagonism and distance I saw there.  My overarching idea has been to imagine the boys in a relationship that is functional and respectful, which deepens in response to truth-telling and trust.  

Once again, thank you so much for all of your support so far.  You are appreciated!

Part 2: Will John and his mad phoenix finally get out of London, and leave for France? And will Alex pull through?? Best wishes and happy reading! :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Alexander, from 'Sketchy' by Serpentynka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255065) by [undun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun)
  * [[Podfic] Sketchy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5834611) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)
  * [Photos to illustrate "Sketchy" by Serpentynka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6010621) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)
  * [Cardinal de Richelieu rose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638779) by [SandyWormbook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyWormbook/pseuds/SandyWormbook)




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